Playing With Minds
by seclinalunica
Summary: What happened on the Green Mile before John Coffey? Set in 1930, a new prisoner confronts the guards at E block; but they do not realize how dangerous the man is to their hearts and minds. Follow the guards as they overcome each obstacle with the dangerous convict, and their personal lives. Paul, Brutus, Harry, Dean and OC. Rated M for language and T for violence. R&R!
1. The Test

**AN: Love the Green Mile movie, and the book, so I'm writing a Fanfction on it. **

**First I need to clarify a few things:**

**1. I'm basing the story on the book timeline, so Coffey was 1932. The story begins in 1930; two years before Coffey.**

**2. This is an M rated Fanfiction for violence and swearing. **

**3. And I do not own the Green Mile. **

**Please read and review. I would love your input. **

**Thank you my lovelies! **

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Chapter 1: The Test

Another hot summer's day meant another long and dreadful shift at the Green Mile. The morning shift had only started, and the heat was starting to seep through the several cracks in the walls, and windows. The shades in the office couldn't even keep the sunlight from engulfing darkness. Not everyone had shown into work that morning, Paul Edgecomb walked the mile, the green tiled floor, checking each prisoner as he went by; making sure that he was keeping the peace. The young pup Dean Stanton was to show up in approximately half an hour, and Harry Terwilliger, the main guard at the desk called in saying that he was coming in late; lunch time was Paul's best bet on when he'd show up. Then there was Brutus Howell. A big man, a strong man, yet he wouldn't hurt a fly unless necessary. They gave him the nickname "Brutal" for pure sarcasm and irony, but Brutus didn't seem to mind. It had a little ring to it; curled off of the tongue slightly. Brutal wasn't going to arrive until dusk; he had what they called, "the grave yard shift."

Paul strolled up and down the cells, glancing at each prisoner as he walked by; both were still sleeping. There were two prisoners at that time. Alexander Smith was an inmate who came in almost two weeks past. He was short, slim, and quick. Most of his physical features presented the stereotypical look of the average serial killer. He had raped and murdered his wife; he ran after he committed his crime. Before he was caught, he pulled a knife on two men at a market. It didn't take long for the police to show up, and in the blink of an eye, he was found guilty at trial and was sent to Cold Mountain prison; which was awfully quiet. They presided in E block; also known as Death Row. The other prisoner was an older gentleman; he obtained glasses, white hair, and a pair of chocolate brown eyes. He was an average sized man, yet strongly built. His conviction was the gruesome murder of his so called gay lover, of who he later resented, and while still alive after multiple stab wounds, found himself watching Harry Winstel eating his inner organs; he died slowly. It made Paul's blood curdle. It didn't matter though, considering that Harry was to be killed in less than a few days. Rehearsal started in the late afternoon of the second day, and Paul, being the perfectionist that he always was, wanted to make sure that the execution was going to be efficient and successful without any complications. He wasn't too worried, considering that Brutal was going to be running the show. Paul glared at Harry, trapped in his cell. He didn't like to call him Harry, none of them; it was too damn close to their own Harry. "Winnie" was his nickname, short for his last. At first the inmate didn't appreciate it, but as time passed, he warmed up to it.

Paul inched closer towards Winnie's cell, finding him lying on his bed, his eyes wide open. Paul found it disgusting, but it wasn't Winnie's fault that the man couldn't sleep with his eyes damned shut. Paul could hear the loud snoring coming from both inmates, and he really wanted to snap, and tell them to shut the hell up! He'd wanted to for the longest time. Large amounts of energy were being bottled up inside all of the guards on E block, and there was only one way to let those emotions out. The reason for the madness is that E block had been extremely quiet lately, so there was no action thrust upon them. There were no brutal fights between inmates or guards for that matter, and it had been like that for the past few months. Brutus and Paul often arm wrestled, although Brutal always won, it attempted to draw away all of that energy; and usually it was worth a try. Paul glanced at his watch and deemed Dean late, about thirty seconds ago. It wasn't long before a young, sharp featured man burst through the door. He placed his belongings aside, and reached for his hat; placing it on his head with a firm grip.

The corner of Paul's mouth stretched. "You are late Dean."

Dean shook his head. "I'm sorry sir on my part. Both my kids came down with a fever this morning and wouldn't stop puking. My wife was doing her part as I was doing mine." He rubbed the back of his head. "It won't happen again Paul."

Paul nodded with satisfaction, followed by a slight chuckle. "I'm just pulling your leg, son. But it better not happen again; kids puking or not. When my kids were young tots, they were puking all over, and yet I still managed to get to work on time."

Dean nodded quickly. "Yes sir."

Paul wandered to the desk, and placed the pencil and clipboard on top. He leaned against it. "There's some cleaning to do, think we can get it done before lunch?"

"Depends on it sir," Dean said. "What sort of cleaning did you have in mind?" he questioned while fixing his tie.

Paul shrugged his shoulders. "Well, I'm betting that the office needs to be cleaned, drastically," Paul suggested as he stared at the light above him. "And I'm betting that the lights need dusting."

The young officer frowned. "Awe, come on Paul! You know I hate heights."

Paul started to walk away. "Well, do you have anything else in mind instead of just playing cards?" He sauntered around the desk, glaring at a piece of paper. "But first, the prisoners have to eat."

Suddenly, a click was heard, and the back door opened. An older officer, about the age of forty five walked into death row, with a mug, and several folders occupied in his hands. He was shorter than the rest, about the height of Dean, 5''9 or so, and he obtained gray hair; a pair of glasses rested on the bridge of his nose. He glanced at Paul and Dean before him. Paul obtained a confused look upon his face. "Harry, you are a little early. You said you would be here at noon."

Harry slowly walked towards the desk, and placed the numerous folders carefully on top. He opened one, and drew his eyes away from his Supervisor. "Well, I must have lied then."

Dean grew curious. "What you got there?"

"Paperwork," Harry quickly replied, "paperwork for us, the other cell mates, and a new convict."

Paul tilted his head slightly, "A new one?"

Harry nodded. Both Paul and Dean noticed that Harry was solemn this morning; he never smiled on a regular basis, but something was on his mind. It might be a little early to ask what. "What's his name?"

Harry raised both of his eyebrows. "The Warden hasn't given me his profile yet, so I do not know, but he wants something from us."

"Us?" questioned Dean.

"Well, I did say that there was some paperwork that we guards have to complete." Harry paused before continuing. "It's what Hal likes to call a questionnaire?" Terwilliger tossed a large booklet towards Paul without warning. "Look at it. It is total bullshit."

Paul stared at the front cover of the booklet, and opened the first page. It obtained small fine print regarding the rules and regulations of both the guard's main duties and the questionnaire. He continued to flip through the occurring pages, and noticed that most of them obtained a question and four possible answers. It was a multiple choice test.

"Why is it such bullshit, Harry?" Paul rolled the booklet, and handed it into the hands of Dean.

"Are you kidding me?" Harry slouched over, slurring his words. "This questionnaire is based upon our jobs. They doubt, thinking that we aren't pulling our own weight."

Dean quickly scanned each page in the questionnaire. "Yeah, that's bull."

Paul cleared his throat, "So what else with this questionnaire?" He stared at Harry, putting on the pressure of a quick, yet decent answer. The older officer was disgusted with the situation.

"Paul, we aren't the only ones taking this test…the prisoners are too."

The boss' eyes grew wide.

"Shit," murmured Dean.

Harry shakily took the glasses away from his face, and gently placed them on the desk. He wiped his forehead. "Sir, one wrong answer, and we lose our jobs. There hasn't been much excitement lately, and I guess that it what is concerning them."

"When does it have to be done by?" Paul stood beside Harry, glancing at the stack of papers on the desk.

"Tomorrow," Harry replied, placing his thumbs between his belt and coat. "If we refuse to take the test, they take that into account as unacceptable behavior." Harry sat himself down at the desk, and looked up towards Paul and Dean. His voice cracked. "I'm sorry sir, but I think you should check your bank account at the end of the day."

"Why?" Dean quickly asked with concern. Obviously with a young family, there was a right to be anxious about money.

"You heard on the radio, the stock market crashed," Harry explained. "I checked my accounts, and in less than a week, BAM!" Harry slammed his hand against the table, causing both Paul and Dean to flinch. A tingle ran up his shoulder. "Two hundred and forty seven dollars was withdrawn from my accounts, without my consent."

There was an awkward silence before Harry spoke again. "It is 1930; these are now hard times. We cannot afford to lose our jobs, because if we do, any of us could be homeless. The last thing any of us at Cold Mountain needs is a call to the boss' office, and get the news that we will be let go from our jobs. There is no doubt in my mind that they will dwindle our numbers; and this questionnaire probably determines who is worthy of keeping."

Paul turned towards Dean, who was obviously concerned money wise, and supporting his family; Paul had to occupy his mind somehow. "Mr. Stanton, why don't you go, and get some food for the prisoners. I'm sure they are very hungry."

Dean nodded, and left E block without another word.

Once Dean exited the scene, Paul looked down upon Harry; who had his face buried beneath his hands. Paul scratched his forehead before starting conversation.

"Harry," Paul sat on the edge of the desk. "What's got you down?"

The older officer hesitated to answer.

"Is everything alright?"

Harry slowly shook his head back and forth. He dared not to look at Paul.

"Do you want to talk about it?"

No answer came from Harry; which raised his concern further.

"Come on, Harry. I'm your boss, and I have a right to know what is bothering you at this very moment, so we can accustom to it. No one else is around. As long as we speak quietly, the prisoners won't be able to hear a thing."

Harry withdrew his hands from his face, and stared blankly in the distance. "I'm scared Paul. This economic crisis is worldwide. If nothing is done between our governments, another world war could start. It is not as bad here, but soon I wouldn't be surprised if I find myself on the streets in five years."

Paul shook his head. "Don't think like that Harry, just think about the present; the future means nothing at this point." A hand forcefully slapped against Harry's shoulder blade, and before long, Paul was no longer on the mile.

* * *

It was approximately four o'clock in the evening. Both Paul and Dean were almost done their shift, along with Harry almost an hour later. They all discussed the situation about the questionnaire earlier, and wouldn't complete it until they got Brutal's opinion; his were the most honest.

Paul crossed his arms, and leaned against the desk. "So, when is the new offender arriving?"

"Tomorrow," Harry answered. "Hopefully he's a wild one. I got the file at lunch. His name is Fredrick Schnaps, but he prefers Freddie as his nickname; this information was provided in the file by the Warden."

Dean entered the conversation. "Is he a wild one?"

Harry glanced at the file one last time, reading it aloud. "Fredrick Schnaps is convicted of murder. He killed...lots of people. Turns out that he was a part of some environmental activist group; it's the thirties, what's with all of this hooting and hollering? Anyway, that is all the Warden gave me, you will have to check his case file in the morning." Harry closed the book and placed it behind his back. "I don't really want to know how he killed them, but I guess we will see what his personality will reflect."

Paul agreed. "Yeah, we'll see"

"Hey boys," a slurred sentence was spoken. The guards turned their attention to an older, and scruffier looking gentleman. Unlike the others he never took much care of himself, and he wasn't in uniform. Instead, he dragged a food cart around with him.

"Toot," Dean started. "You are here a little early."

"Don't really give a damn, boy." Toot snarled. "This is the last time I'll be coming around the mountain this evening."

Paul bit his tongue. "Toot, you should know better than that. One of our officers hasn't even arrived yet, and you are not going to give him a time of day to eat?"

Toot took a look at Harry, who was prepared to give Toot money for some delicious food lying on top of the cart. "I'll take some crackers." Harry said, waving the money forward.

Toot handed Dean the crackers; too lazy to hand the food towards the paying customer. "Is there anything else?"

Paul searched through his pockets, and took out a handful of currency. He placed it in Toot's hands, and quickly ordered. "Three sandwiches, box of crackers, and a Moon Pie." Without hesitation, the older gentleman snatched the money, and handed the food in less than two minutes. Then without a second thought, he left the scene; beckoning to the whole world that his shift was finally over, and that he could go home to a cell of his own.

Five minutes later, Paul and Dean's shift was over, and it was time to go home. Paul sighed as he turned towards Harry who was still preoccupied with the questionnaire. The inmates were taking their time with it, and it frustrated the guards beyond belief. It had to be turned in by tomorrow morning; a grueling task, but Paul was certain that Brutal would make sure the inmates would get it done before dawn. "Harry, tell Brutal I bought his supper, and that he doesn't have to worry about paying me back. Tell him that Toot was just being a bastard, and came around with the truck early."

Harry nodded, "Got it boss."

* * *

It was five-thirty before Brutal showed up, dressed in full uniform with a lunch box in hand. He was approximately six feet tall; towering almost every single co-worker in the prison. He looked menacing, but in reality was just an enormous teddy bear. He only used force when necessary, but his sense of humor was always there to keep everyone's spirits shining brightly. Brutus entered E block, and met Harry inside the office. Again, it was unusually quiet at E block; but it had been like that for the longest time. Despite the crimes that the convicts committed, they were very shy and quiet people.

"Hello, Harry." Brutus entered with a neutral expression.

"Good evening Brutal."

"What's wrong?" Brutal continued with his soft, yet rough voice.

"You've got a questionnaire waiting for you."

"Questionnaire," Before Brutal could protest, a large booklet was thrown in his face, "What for?"

"You have to finish it before tomorrow. There are two more on the desk. The prisoners have to fill it out too. Fill it out carefully, and tell us what your opinion is in the morning. We've already completed, or are close to completing the booklet. You and that floater might be bored tonight, so this homework might come in handy." Harry stood up, grabbing the jacket of his uniform from his chair. He gathered folders from earlier; ready to take the evening off, and leave E block in the hands of the second in command.

"I'll take a look at it."

"Read it carefully," Harry quickly answered Brutal's statement. "And complete it carefully. This may cost us our jobs, and in the wake of a recession, we cannot afford that." After his short lecture, Harry brushed past Brutus, heading out the door; slamming it shut, leaving the guard alone in the office waiting for the floater, and dreading a long graveyard shift.

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_Chapter two is next..._


	2. The Night Shift

**AN: Here is Chapter two. If you haven't already noticed, basically this Fanfiction is dedicated to the guards. John Coffey won't be in this...maybe later in the story; but this is a story based on the guard's everyday lives. Maybe their lives aren't as boring as we think they are. Please read, review and enjoy!**

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Chapter two: The Night Shift

It was around midnight, and Brutal and the young floater were busy playing a game of cards; eating corned beef sandwiches and a bag of crackers. Again, it was a long and boring night; the inmates would never talk or do much in their cells. It had been ages since Brutus had used his size against another; or threatened another man; co-worker or convict alike. In other words, he wanted some excitement to happen in E block. He had read the notes Paul had left him, explaining that they would be getting another prisoner that night. The floater hadn't been much better; he wasn't a big talker himself. Just an ordinary guy from "A" block; that didn't know much about Death Row the way Brutus did. Brutus had been working on the Green Mile for almost as long as Paul, and had seen almost anything and everything. Although something new would come along and amuse the poor man.

Brutal had taken a look at the questionnaires, and he agreed with Harry. It was complete and utter bullshit. Maybe instead of filling out bubble sheets, the least the prison could do is walk over and see the situation with their very own eyes. It was boring there for the last month. What else were the guards supposed to say? Brutal skimmed the rules and regulations. He rolled his eyes at the paper several times. The officer squinted at the first question:

Has paperwork been filled out the last month?

Yes

No

Not sure

I never fill out the paperwork

He was tempted to pick "d". Brutal licked the tip of the pencil in his hand, and circled "a". For the next half an hour, Brutal went through the excruciating pain of the booklet. Afterwards, he tossed the book aside and threw the pencil over his shoulder; angered at what the Warden forced him to accomplish along with his co-workers. They weren't doing a checkup. It was obvious what the test was for. They were going to lay off workers, and like Harry stated, in a hard economic crisis, losing your job would be one of the worst feelings ever. Brutal knew about the harsh reality of life; he had seen people kill themselves over a situation like that.

Brutal grabbed the other two questionnaires, along with a chair, and carried everything over to the first cell. He knocked the bars loudly with his baton. "Hey, Alex, wake up for a minute." Brutal stood his ground, and knocked his baton against the cell again, hoping to wake the convict up; but he was dead asleep. Brutal really didn't feel like opening the door, and giving the man a beating. Dumping a bucket of ice cold water on him would be another option. There was no such thing as hot water on Cold Mountain, so cold water was the only water supply that they could afford; lucky him. "Alexander, wake up!" Brutus exclaimed, but it was no use. The man was caught in a deep sleep, and the questionnaire had to be completed in the morning. Suddenly, a small knock was heard behind him. Brutus shifted his body around, and noticed the other inmate, Winnie, wide awake, and peeking his head through the bars.

"He's a deep sleeper," Winnie pointed out the obvious.

"Well, no shit Sherlock." Brutal moaned.

"What are you doing boss Howell?" Winnie questioned.

Brutal raised both his eyebrows, and placed the chair in front of Winnie's cell. "I guess I'll start with you now." The officer made himself comfortable in the middle of the hall; he stared into the soul of the prisoner. "We have to fill out a questionnaire for all our sakes. I was going to start out with sleeping beauty, but obviously I'm too busy to waste my time. You ready?"

"Yes boss."

"Gooood," Brutal said with a sleek smile.

And so he continued with the questionnaire. Forty five minutes had passed, and they were still moving slowly. Out of the twenty pages, only five were completed. There were quite a few "Yes" answers coming from Harry; which made Brutus question himself. A question such as, "Are the guards treating you with upmost respect, and sympathy?" "Yes" was Winnie's answer, but that was their jobs. They had to keep the prisoners calm by talking. They had to use their brains, and not entirely their brawn. There were other questions that meant nothing towards the occupation at hand; it drove both Brutus and Winnie mad. Brutal could see the look in Winnie's eyes; he was getting irritated, and was constantly wondering when the pain and suffering of this questionnaire would end.

"You know what?" Brutal started, tossing the pencil aside. "Fuck this questionnaire." The guard firmly gripped the booklet, and ripped it in half. He continued to do so until there was nothing left. Once letting out his frustrations, he clumped the tiny fragments of paper together in his fist, and exhaled. Several papers soared into the air, and scattered amongst the mile. "I'm going to go insane if we keep this up. If they like me enough they will keep me."

Winnie nodded. "You are a very good man boss Howell, they will keep you. They'll keep all of you. You treat us well, where no one else would; and you keep both Alex and I company every day when we've got nobody else. I know I ain't much of a talker, but I don't have much time boss. I'm dead in three days."

Brutal couldn't help but smile. "Thanks for your support Winnie, but trust me, we aren't that perfect either. I'm bored out of my mind, and Mr. Floater over there isn't much help in keeping me occupied. Let's say…would you like to play a game of cribbage?"

"What's that?" Winnie questioned.

"You shitting me, it's a card game. The best two handed one too. I just know that you'd love it. You seem like the guy who likes to play a game of cribbage." Brutus snatched a deck of cards beside his feet, and began shuffling them. "I'll teach you how to play."

"Okay," the prisoner complied.

"So first, there is the Draw, Shuffle and Cut. From a shuffled pack face down, each player cuts a card, leaving at least four cards at either end of the pack. If both players cut cards of the same rank, each draws again. The player with the lower card deals the first hand. Thereafter, the turn to deal alternates between the two players, except that the loser of the game deals first if another game is played. The dealer has the right to shuffle last, and he presents the cards to the non-dealer for the cut prior to the deal. (In some games, there is no cut at this time.) Then there is the Deal. The dealer distributes six cards face down to his opponent and himself, beginning with the opponent. Oh, I almost forgot, the object of the game is to be the first player to score 121 points. Players earn points during play and for making various card combinations. Now, each player looks at his six cards and "lays away" two of them face down to reduce the hand to four. The four cards laid away together constitute "the crib". The crib belongs to the dealer, but these cards are not exposed or used until after the hands have been played. After the crib is laid away, the non-dealer cuts the pack. The dealer turns up the top card of the lower packet and places it face up on top of the pack. This card is the "starter." If the starter is a jack, it is called "His Heels," and the dealer pegs or scores 2 points at once. The starter is not used in the play phase of Cribbage, but is used later for making various card combinations that score points. After the starter is turned, the non-dealer lays one of his cards face up on the table. The dealer similarly exposes a card, then non-dealer again, and so on - the hands are exposed card by card, alternately except for a "Go." Each player keeps his cards separate from those of his opponent. As each person plays, he announces a running total of pips reached by the addition of the last card to all those previously played. For example: The non-dealer begins with a four, saying "Four." The dealer plays a nine, saying "Thirteen". The kings, queens and jacks count 10 each; every other card counts its pip value; the ace counts as one." There was a long pause of silence, before Brutal spoke again. "Did you get all of that?"

Winnie nodded. "I think so."

Brutus waved a hand towards the desk, in which another guard was quietly working. He tried to get the young man's attention, "Might as well get the floater in on it too." Brutal whistled sharp, causing the guard to look up, and stare at Brutus. "Hey, floater, come and join us!"

The guard shook his head.

Brutus scoffed. "No?" he paused, and then spoke his mind, "Bastard." Brutal turned his attention back towards Winnie, "Looks like it is just you and me then."

* * *

The game of cribbage had ended about an hour and a half later, and Brutal had to admit that he really enjoyed himself. After their game, a little chit chat came into play. Brutal was never an expressive man, but when he had a little one on one with another human being, you got to know the individual a little bit more closely. According to the guard, there was nothing too impressive about him; just a single man trying to make a living out in the country side. And for Winnie, besides his cannibalistic nature and sense of murder, he was an interesting man. The dark side of life was cruel, and the events that occurred in the prisoner's lives, were the main cause of the crimes they committed. However, they still did wrong, and they still were murderers; they deserved to fry, but might as well make their last moments worth it.

Brutal glanced over to his left, staring at the restraint room; they haven't had much use of it. As long as the new prisoner wasn't a crazy block head, the restraint room wouldn't be needed for another few months or so; maybe even a year. Brutus glanced back at Winnie, who obviously needed sleep. He rose from his chair, and glanced around the mile; he noticed all of the clutter around the prison; chairs, desks, and other stuff that could be put away somewhere; and Brutal needed something to do. First, he started with a simple chair, and placed it inside the padded room; he continued to do so with the other chaos that was hoarding the mile.

Brutal was done at approximately five in the morning. The place was cleaner than it had ever been before; or as long as he could remember. He and the floater were playing their game of cribbage, eating their sandwiches and other assortments of food as they carefully placed their cards amongst the table top. They didn't talk much. Brutal couldn't wait for his shift to be over. He'd have the day off at noon, and would return to a morning shift; which was a good change for once. Then, there were the dreaded questionnaires. He had completed two out of the three; the third he shredded to pieces; making the excuse that one of the prisoners refused to take the test. He was a gentle giant, but when it came to unnecessary things, he didn't have the time or patience for it. He wrote random answers inside his test to make himself look good – like everybody else – and forged Alex's test. Brutal placed the last booklet inside the nearest garbage bin; the Warden would understand.

Brutus eyed the clock above the desk. Time passed fairly quickly; it was six thirty. Paul would be arriving soon, along with Dean, Harry and the new prisoner. Home wasn't too far around the corner. Brutal rose from his chair, and headed towards the mile's office. He went inside, and snatched the questionnaires from the desk. He placed them into Harry's folder; making sure that it was neat and organized. Brutal was convinced that Harry had OCD. He wanted everything in alphabetical order, organized, and he did the same tasks over and over again in a repeated pattern that he just couldn't break. It was the same for Brutus and his pencil licking. He was sure that one day he would die from lead poisoning.

Brutal gently closed the door to the office, and headed through the hallway. He noticed that it was unnaturally dirty. Along with habits, Brutal liked everything exceptionally clean; he was a perfectionist you could say. He would have to get the floor spit shined before he could go home; it was just another thing on his plate. Brutus continued down the hallway, and he noticed that he was becoming tired. He shifted to the right slightly, his shoulder brushing against the brick wall. He heard a tear, but ignored the strange noise. Once Brutus reached the desk, he tossed the folder aside, and took a sharp look at the floater.

"Your shift is over, you can go home." Brutus said to the young officer, softly.

The floater gawked at Brutal. "Are you sure?"

He nodded. "Yeah, thanks for all of your help. You did great with the paperwork, and we should play cards again some time."

The young officer grinned as he stood up, and grabbed all of his belongings. Brutal nodded his head towards the door, gesturing that the boy should get going before Brutal changed his mind about letting him go home ten minutes early. Once the floater was out of sight, Brutus leaned the back of his body against the desk, and he stared down the mile. He swore that he could hear crickets through the tiling. The inmates didn't make a sound; they were fast asleep.

Brutal spent another five minutes in peace, until he suddenly felt something wet running down his leg. He could feel the wetness against his ankle, and strolling over his black shoe. Brutus glanced downwards, and noticed a small pool of blood lacing around his right foot. He bent over, and examined his leg further. He obtained a large cut almost two inches in length, and half an inch deep. It bled with no mercy; however Brutus did not panic, he simply grabbed the handkerchief from the back of his pocket, and dabbed it against his leg; the hanky collecting blood quicker than expected. Brutus casually walked towards the washroom, and once reaching the sink, placed the handkerchief under the water; rinsing it thoroughly before placing it back onto his wound. He must have snagged it on something when he leaned against the wall earlier. The cut was large in length, but did not need stitching. Brutal sat inside the bathroom, leaning his back against the brick wall on the ground, waiting for the blood to clot.

* * *

There was a large clang heard as Paul entered the mile. He greeted an empty desk, and an extremely quiet prison. No guard was heard nor seen. He knew that the floater had left an hour or so ago, but Brutal was nowhere in sight; Paul guessed that he was either inside the washroom or in the office; either way, he'd be back soon. Paul sauntered further, and noticed that the mile was cleaner than usual; most of the extra and unnecessary furniture was missing. He had wondered where it had all mysteriously gone to. He stalked around the desk, and stepped onto something wet. He gazed downwards, and noticed a pool of blood on the floor. Did something happen last night?

Paul looked around the prison; discovering a long, thin trail of blood. He saw a few small spots that accompanied the sides of the trail. Paul followed it carefully, and noticed that the evidence lead to the bathroom door. Once he reached the door, he knocked lightly.

The body inside heard the knock loud and clear. "Paul?"

Paul took a quick breath. "Brute, are you alright in there?"

Brutal replied calmly, "Yeah, I'm fine. You can come in you know."

Paul slowly pulled open the bathroom door. He was hoping to find Brutal with a bloody nose or something, but instead found him on the floor; with his back against the wall. There was a bloody handkerchief against his ankle. Brutus dabbed at it every so often, for the wound started to clot. Paul noticed that he was a little pale. "Are you alright Brutal?"

Brutus nodded, and slightly smiled. "Yeah, I'm fine," he continued to dab at the wound. "I cut my ankle on something ten minutes ago. It's starting to clot. It doesn't need stitching, but I'll put a little something on it tomorrow." He explained softly. "When is the prisoner showing up?"

Paul raised an eyebrow. "About an hour…Harry and Dean still have to arrive."

Brutal stood up. He winced slightly; as the wound stung too much for his taste. He turned the tap on the sink, and placed the handkerchief back under the water, squeezing the blood from the cloth.

"Did you finish the assignment?" Paul suddenly questioned.

Brutal nodded. "I finished mine, and Alex finished his. Winnie refused to answer anything, and ripped the booklet to shreds." He was lying, and Paul was well aware of it. He wasn't the greatest liar in the whole wide world, but Paul had known Brutus for years, and a small perk would always show. In this case, Brutal tended to furrow his eyebrows after he lied; however, Paul didn't mention anything about it. He figured that Brutus ripped the booklet to bits, and forged Alex's test. Brutus probably completed his questionnaire with his eyes closed.

"What did you think?" Paul asked, leaning against the door.

Brutal shrugged. "It was a waste of time. That's all I can say about it." Brutus tossed his handkerchief into the garbage beside him. "Diseased…poor Harry, he's probably stressing over the situation like it was the end of the world." Brutal rolled down his pant leg. Paul took a small glimpse of the wound; it was a beauty.

The two guards exited the washroom. Brutal adjusted his uniform, making sure that everything looked flawless; such as wrinkles. Paul spoke, "Harry lost money in his bank account last week, a lot of it. Dean went and checked his account last night. He said that when he noticed that fifty dollars was taken, he quickly closed all of his accounts and ran with the money. It's a world crisis, and that's why the questionnaire was a serious test." Paul lifted the booklet above his head. "And yours is a piece of shit. I expected better from you."

Brutal chuckled. "Like I said boss, it was a waste of time. The Warden knows me. I've been here for years, along with you. Hal is most likely going to go to you for a reference on every worker on E block; you are our Supervisor. Trust me Paul. They did this to everyone at the prison."

Paul slowly lowered himself into the nearest chair, and pulled out his pocket watch. He glanced at the time. "Everyone wants to save money Brutus, and if they want to save money because there isn't much action here at E block, then they will do as they please."

Brutal shook his head. "It won't happen."

"Tell that to Dean and Harry when they get here. I'm sure you will lighten their spirits then."

"Yes boss."

Paul scanned Brutus from head to toe; he was still as white as a ghost. "I do agree with you Brutal, but we've already lived through a war. You and I were lucky enough to not have been involved with such things. You were sixteen, still in High School; and I was twenty two, taking care of my child. We were safe here in America, but in twenty plus years, another one could potentially occur. Let's hope not, alright?"

Brutal stood firmly with his hands behind his back, "Alright?"

"What did you cut yourself on?"

Brutus tilted his head slightly, "Must have snagged it on something. Didn't notice it till later, but I'll be fine."

"Are you sure?" Paul continued, "You are pale, and swaying from side to side."

Brutus frowned and held his breath, "I'm fine." He escalated his rough voice, causing Paul's eyes to widen, and shut the hell up.

Suddenly, both Dean and Harry entered the scene. Paul and Brutal were so deep in their conversation that they didn't notice the two bringing the prisoner inside the Green Mile. Paul quickly stood up, banging his knee against the table. Once he finally managed to get onto his feet, he met with the other three guards. He took a long glance at the prisoner before him. Again, he was an average sized man, nowhere near the height of him nor Brutus. Though this man was different…most men on death row were rough and ragged, it didn't matter what their personality traits were; the physical features were the most evident. The convict was slightly dirty, but clean shaven. He had incredible posture, and looked almost as if he was pleased to be on Death Row. He wasn't the stereotypical murder machine that E block had seen for years. The man was incredibly skinny, his lanky body wouldn't match any of the guards on E block; not even toot. He wore his prisoner's uniform like everybody else. The man obtained piercing silver eyes, and bright blonde hair; brighter than Brutus'. His hair was slicked back, and the majority of his face was so sharp that you could cut yourself just by touching; the cheekbones especially. Paul felt something strange. The prisoner stared into his eyes, causing a shiver to roll down Paul's spine. It was as if a ghost had walked right through him. He didn't know what it was, or why, but there was something mysterious about the offender. He'd have to check his case file after his declaration regarding the rules and regulations to the prisoner.

"Follow me," Paul said with an aggressive tone. He, the prisoner, along with the rest of the guards slowly made their way towards the end of the mile. As they strode by, both Paul and the new inmate noticed the other two prisoners; Winnie and Alex. They were curious; their faces smothered within the bars of their cage. Once the guards reached the end of the mile, Dean took snatched the keys attached to his belt, and opened the rusty cell. The prisoner did not fight, nor did he hesitate to go inside. As he brushed past the boss, he offered a smile of gratitude; neither something Paul nor any of the other guards were willing to accept at the moment. Paul entered after, Harry trailing behind with the keys for the cuffs.

Paul raised his voice, "My name is Paul Edgecomb. People around here call me "boss"; and that's what I want you to call me."

The convict nodded.

Paul huffed. "If you need anything, you can call either boss Howell, boss Stanton, or boss Terwilliger. Either one of us will be on shift day and night…" Paul trailed off; he saw the man's eyes shine bright again, and stare back into his soul. Paul ignored the action and took another breath. "Can you talk? What's your name?"

The new convict blinked twice, and looked to the side. His voice was light, calm and collective; you wouldn't have known that he had committed a crime. He never fit the profile; at least not back then. "My name is Frederick Schnaps. And I know you like to give people nicknames; I've heard the stories and the rumours. Please, call me Freddie." He paused and stared at the guards for a moment or two before continuing the rest of his statement with his arms stretched outwards. "Now, I've had these on me all morning. Can you please take them off?" Freddie turned his attention towards Harry, ready with the keys.

None of them could believe it. The man was calm and courteous. He wasn't wild like all of the others; and there was no need to punish or beat him from what they could see in their perspectives. All of the guards were curious to see his profile; and the crimes that he had committed.

Paul nudged Harry, who fumbled with the keys. "Mr. Terwilliger is going to take your cuffs off now. If you try anything, we will shoot you."

Freddie acknowledged Paul's threat.

Harry squeezed his way between Paul and prisoner. He stood before the convict, and released the chains from his wrists and ankles. Once finished, he rose to his feet, and left the cell, waiting for the others. Paul took one last look at the new inmate before leaving the enclosed area. When no one but Freddie was left inside, Dean quickly closed and locked the cell tightly. The guards all left, casually walking towards the office. They were all ready to analyze Freddie's profile, and learn the truth about the man they were going to execute.

_Chapter three is next..._


	3. Analysis

**AN: Here's Chapter three! Hope you are all enjoying the story thus far! Please read and review, comments are appreciated. And the follow and favourite button is just below as well.**

**Take care lovelies!**

* * *

Analysis:

The four guards on E block, Harry Terwilliger, Dean Stanton, Brutal Howell and Paul Edgecomb all sat in the heated office. It must have been over a hundred degrees inside the office, and no matter how hard they tried to get air ventilating through the room, there was no way they could get past the sun; it was too damn hot. Everyone, but Harry took their belts and coats off; their shirts and ties clinging against their bodies. They were sweating uncontrollably. As some stared at the paperwork before them, Paul was busy reading the new inmate's profile. He was curious as to what he had committed. His physical traits wouldn't be able to hurt a fly, and the way he dressed and talked didn't seem to fit the bill; he was too perfect. I guess the truth had to come out sooner or later: you could be the sweet little old lady standing at the corner, and still be a killer.

According to Freddie's case file, several suicides had taken place over a period of two weeks. The police knew that they were linked in some sort of way. The authorities didn't think much of it until a large group, about sixty or so activists got together and gathered around their leader; of who convinced everyone to kill themselves. They all drank poison, simultaneously. They died together; except for their leader, who was too chicken to do so himself; or too sick to do himself. Was it for his own benefit; and entertainment? Did he take advantage over those sixty people who truly believed in themselves and their ideas? The authorities and the state of law seemed to agree with those questions, and sent him to the green mile; to be electrocuted. Paul had never heard something like this before. Technically speaking, the activists killed themselves as a group, but their leader was the head and the mouth of the group; persuading each individual to do themselves in. He did kill them; psychologically, and then it made sense to the group at E block. The man couldn't kill with his hands, he could kill with his mind; and that is what made him so scary.

"Everyone," Paul raised his voice with concern. "You all read his case file?"

"Yes," Dean projected.

Both Harry and Brutal stared at Paul with a neutral expression.

"I want you all to be careful if he tries to talk to any of you." Paul tossed the file back to Harry. "You all saw the case file, if he can convince sixty people to do something like that to themselves; he might just have the urge to play with all of our minds."

Brutal sighed. "Listen Paul, I agree with you on this, but we still have to treat him with the dignity and respect that we give to all of the other inmates."

It was Dean's turn to speak. "Well, I know that we are all caring and considerate, but isn't that kind of scary? Sure, the folks were activists fighting for rights that really never made sense to us, but he took advantage of that, and turned everything against them. He might take what matters the most to us, and do the same if we are not careful."

Brutal nodded. "Well, if he gets into anything personal, just stop him and walk away. And if he gets out of hand, we can stick him into the restraint room." –

"In which you turned into a storage room," Paul added, giving his friend a menacing look. Both Brutal and Paul chuckled together.

Harry placed his glasses onto his nose, and stared at a file before him. "We will all be careful, but he didn't seem like much of a talker either. Things may be boring as usual."

Brutal rose to his feet, and placed a firm hand onto Paul's shoulder. "Let's focus on cleaning Ol' sparky and rehearsing tomorrow. Then we deal with Winnie's execution. After that, well…I'm sure we will see the true personality of our new friend."

All of the men in the room smiled. Brutal then grabbed his coat and wrapped it around his arm. He took a hold of his belt, accessorized with guns and bullets, and placed it around his waist, so he didn't have so much to carry. He snatched his lunchbox and scurried towards the door, his shoes squeaking against the ground. He opened the office door, and before leaving peered at the rest of his co-workers with a grin. "See you on Friday boys."

"Bye," all the guards said in a chained reaction.

Once Brutus was gone, that's when the many questions occurred. Paul couldn't help, but answer them.

* * *

It was Thursday night, which angered Brutus. The next day was a morning shift, and he would be stuck cleaning the individual cells. He would be sweeping, mopping, scrubbing the walls; damn, he felt like a maid. These weren't officer's jobs, but it was extra duty, because of the slow work; it had to be done whether they liked it or not. But all Brutal could do now was enjoy the evening to himself; like most of the time. He was a lonely man. He never had anyone special in his life. He had friends, but it was hard to get together when work got in the way. Paul invited everyone for dinner on Sunday; all were working the day shift, so nobody but floaters would be stepping onto the mile. Paul was sometimes on call, but nothing out of the ordinary has happened lately.

But Brutal couldn't help but wonder about the new prisoner; Freddie. If the convicted wasn't wearing a uniform, Brutal would have thought that Cold Mountain had gone insane; just picked an average, good looking man on the street. This was a new era, and they were going to have to get used to it. The depression was now hitting America hard, and Brutus hadn't bothered to check his accounts. Unlike Harry and Paul, he wasn't that interested in the stock market. Brutus was just an ordinary man, living inside an ordinary home, living an average life. It humbled him. He had great friends, of who were treated as family, and a wonderful job that he couldn't be more thankful of. Dinner on Sunday was going to be great; he would get to spend time with Paul, Dean and Harry of who were all going to be accompanied with their wives; and Dean's kids. Brutal had met them once before, the eldest was six years old, the youngest four; Dean was in training at the time. Dean and his family were very young; thinking about it made him feel old. When he realized that the big 4-0 would come around the mountain eventually, it made him feel ancient.

Brutus sat on the edge of the bathtub. He wore a clean white t-shirt, and a pair of shorts. It was nice to get away from their dark, hot uniforms. Brutal's right leg was propped up, and he was cleaning the wound – of which he had received two days ago –thoroughly. He had ignored it all day, but the stinging wouldn't subside. No matter what movement he made, the pain just got worse. The cut was healing though. A scab was created, and it never opened. Puss did seep out of the wound every now and then, but Brutal had a bottle of cream handy for occasions such as this. After cleaning out the dirt, and grime, Brutal reached for the cream, and rubbed it along his skin. It burned, but he was a tough man, a little cut could do him no harm.

The phone rang. Brutal rushed out of the bathroom, and hobbled along the hallway to the phone inside the living room. He answered the caller. "Hello?"

It was Paul. "Hey, I have to talk to you."

Brutal was concerned, "About what, Paul? Did something happen at the mile?"

"No, no everything is fine."

Brutal raised an eyebrow. "Then what's it about?"

"Hal needs to see you tomorrow if you don't comply with me."

Brutal scoffed. "Does this have to do with the test that we took?"

Paul was quick to reply. "Brutus, you listen to me, okay? We've been good friends for a very long time, and I'd hate to see something bad happen to you, so I need to talk some sense into you!"

This was unnecessary. "Hey, I gave you my opinion."

"Hal doesn't compute like I do. He knows that you forged the prisoner's tests, and he could tell in your writing that you didn't give a damn. You have the best writing amongst all of the guards."

Brutal was silent.

"Brutal, the Warden knows you. He can read you like a book." Paul could hear some chuckling in the background; he wasn't impressed. "I'm serious Brute. Harry and Dean put their heart and soul into that questionnaire while you were shitting all over it. Hal wants you to take it again, but this time seriously. He's going to keep your word on the prisoner's tests, but expect a booklet on the desk when you get to work tomorrow. Hal will most likely pop in to see you when you get there, so you better find a good excuse than the one you gave me."

Brutal sighed. "But that's the truth."

"Fuck the truth." said Paul blatantly.

Brutus bore a serious expression, realizing that Paul was right in a way. "I'm sorry Paul. I'll make sure I'll take the test seriously at work tomorrow."

"Good."

* * *

Harry Terwilliger was caught in a large line at the bank. There must have been at least twenty people in front of him. There were four tellers, but the majority were at each teller for over forty five minutes; which angered him. He couldn't afford to be late for work. He didn't bother making a phone call to work before he left home, and there sure wasn't one around on the streets; it would be too convenient. Harry glanced at his watch and tapped his feet impatiently. He felt the urge to leave, but soon realized that there was a larger line behind him. He was stuck in the middle, and if he came back later, he'd be in the exact same spot as he was before.

He had to hurry though. Ninety nine percent of the people were either buying extra protection for their accounts, or closing them all, taking the money and running; Dean committed the latter. An hour went by, and he found three more people in front of him. He was so close, but yet so far away. His shift started at ten o' clock, and it was already eight thirty; he was really pressed for time. Harry continued to glance at his watch; and continued to stare and follow the line bit by bit. He couldn't distract himself, but It wasn't long before his name was called, and quickly walked up to the teller.

The proper woman in front of him folded her hands. She was an older lady, and seemed like she knew what the commotion was all about. Harry deemed his guess was true, but coming from a professional seemed wiser. "What can I do for you, sir?"

Harry's eye twitched. "I need to close my accounts."

"I'm sorry sir," she smiled gleefully again. How could she smile in a dire situation such as this? "But because of the economy, we can no longer do that; only the first one hundred."

Harry bit his cheek. "Then what am I to do?"

"What's your name?"

"Harry Terwilliger."

She glanced down at his shaking hands; which were crumpled together. He was afraid, and he wasn't afraid to show it. But it was understandable; everyone was afraid in a situation like this. The woman turned around, and headed to a large cabinet. She searched through it and pulled out a tiny folder; then retraced her steps. The teller opened the folder as she sat down, glooming over the situation. "Harry Terwilliger. You don't happen to be related to Mary Terwilliger?"

Harry nodded, but didn't smile. "Yes, she's my wife."

The teller scanned the pages. "We used to go to High School together. Well, Mr. Terwilliger looks like you lost another hundred dollars since last time you've been here. You had a lot saved up I see." The woman was careful not to speak too loudly. When it came to money, everything was confidential.

A shiver went down Harry's spine. Another one hundred dollars…gone. The most he made was ten dollars a week. He'd have to labour until he died in order to gain back all of the money he had lost. He had hoped for retirement in less than ten years; after all, he had worked at the mile for more than twenty five years. "How much can I take out?"

The woman glanced along his file. She pointed at a specific area. "It looks like you do not have a limit. You can take as much money out of your account as you'd like."

Thank you Jesus!

"But you still have to pay the bank fee of one dollar; otherwise you will be hip deep into trouble. And you do not want that on your plate, trust me." The teller was right; she knew what she was talking about. But why did such a place like this have to be so hard, and trustworthy on its customers? It doesn't make sense, but if you think about it, not much about life makes sense anyway.

"I'll take five hundred. That gives me thirty left."

The woman complied. She pulled cash from underneath the counter, and counted aloud as she placed the money along the desk. Once the five hundred was in place, Harry quietly grabbed the cash and placed it into his coat pocket. Some strange people were lingering the corners. They were watching, and it was nerve-racking. The woman placed her hand on top of his; she stroked it gently. Harry was confused as the teller leaned over, and whispered into his ear. "Take the side door. And run, cautiously. Some people might take advantage over you as you are an older gentleman. Do you have exact change?"

Harry said "yes" in silence.

"The bus will be here in thirty seconds. Take it to your car. They cannot hurt you there."

She was dead wrong about that statement, but she'd probably seen anything and everything; so following her word was probably the wisest decision. Harry, still pressed for time, took another glance at the strange men in the corners of the bank. He kept a watchful eye as he left the bank; he spotted the nearest bus and hopped onto it, hoping that the teller was right.

* * *

Harry burst through the doors of E block. He entered a quiet prison once again. As he attempted to catch his breath, he glanced at the clock; five to ten…he was on time. Thank god that it was Paul's day off, or he'd be in trouble for sure! He spotted Dean, stripped down to his white shirt and tie, standing beside the main desk in the mile. He was holding a broom; placing his chin on the tip. Dean was staring at something in the distance. There was some sort of commotion going on inside the first cell to the left. It was left wide open; which worried Harry. He noticed that an inmate along with an officer was missing from the scene, but Dean didn't seem too concerned.

Harry looked at Dean with a worried expression. "What's going on here? Where's Brutal?"

Dean pointed to the open cell. "He's in there scrubbing the walls. I don't know what's wrong with him."

Harry placed his belongings onto the table, and stood adjacent to Dean. He stared inside the cell, finding Brutal on his hands and knees, scrubbing the floor; menacingly. Brutus glanced over his shoulder, spotting Harry with a confused expression smothered along his face, "Oh, good morning Harry."

"Brutal," Harry started, "What are you doing?"

Brutal stood erect. He wiped his nose. "Cleaning, why?"

Harry was in silence.

Brutal turned his attention towards Dean. "Dean, remind me why I am doing this. Why am I doing this?"

Dean whispered in Harry's direction. "He asked me that four times already this morning. I think he is going crazy." –

Brutal quickly turned, and pointed in Dean's direction; although he was so far away, Harry couldn't tell who he was throwing his anger towards. "Hey, I heard that." He then turned around chuckling to himself; Dean played along. Harry was still confused at the situation.

Brutal wiped his nose again, and continued to clean the walls of the cell. "Don't be alarmed guys; I'm still my gentle and caring self. I'm still sane. Warden Moore came to talk to me this morning. We had a little chat about the questionnaire. It didn't sit well with me."

Dean's ears perked, "What did he say?"

"He said," Brutal sniffled. "That he was disappointed in me, and that I should take a little more responsibility as second in command. In other words, he fried me like Ol' Sparky."

Harry's eyes widened. "You weren't fired, were you?"

"No," Brutal answered. "I was right. If I'm valuable to them, they will keep me. You two are just as valuable, even more than me." Brutal tossed the sponge back into the dirty pale beside him. "No one is going anywhere on E block; but my punishment…is cleaning duty, and…he's making me do the questionnaire again, but this time, I have to put my heart and soul into this paper."

Harry bore a sly expression, "Should have done it right the first time."

"Well, I didn't have time." Brutus elevated his body, and slowly walked out of the cell. "I was too busy playing cribbage. Look at you, Harry. You look like you've seen a ghost; what's wrong this morning?" Brutal clapped his hands together.

Harry glanced to the side before locking his eyes with both Dean and Brutus. "I went to the bank, and lost another hundred dollars. They wouldn't let me close the accounts, so I took just as much money that I needed, and ran. I'm getting scared Brutal. I'm scared because there are people in poverty, without jobs and living on the streets. People are killing each other for money."

Brutal's smile quickly faded. Dean wasn't too concerned now that he knew that the money was safe for his family. Harry continued, "We might be seeing some new characters on the mile pretty soon, I can guarantee that."

There was a large BANG! The three guards gazed down the mile, and saw that one of the prisoners in the far cell had dropped something; and was desperately trying to reach for it. Dean stared at the other two guards, and nodded. Brutal and Harry exited the Green Mile while Dean made his way towards the cell. It was Freddie's cell. As he drew closer and closer, he saw that a coiled novel had been dropped, and the convict was too short and weak to reach it. Dean took a step forward, and leaned down. He picked up the book; however he found his wrist a little too close to the bars.

Dean heard a sharp click. He shifted his eyes downwards, and found himself handcuffed to the bars of the cell. Freddie grabbed Dean's wrist and pulled him close; clamping his jaw, and covering his mouth. The prisoner told him to hush as Dean struggled and attempted to cry for help, but for some reason, after two minutes of constant struggling, the soothing sound of the man's voice calmed Dean, and almost made him fall into a deep slumber.

"I just want to talk," Freddie whispered. He let go of Dean.

* * *

_Chapter four is next..._


	4. Playing With the Mind Part 1:

**AN: Thanks to all my readers, thus far! Hope you are all enjoying the story. Remember to read, review and most of all, enjoy! Also, favourite and follow!**

**Again, I do not own the Green Mile. Wish I did though, I would have made like ten thousand sequels! :D**

* * *

Playing with the Mind Part 1:

"I said hold still," the inmate spoke softly, attempting to calm the young officer. He let go of Dean, but tended to struggle, so grabbing a hold of him once again seemed like the best option. He needed somebody to talk to. "I want to just talk, okay?"

Dean nodded hesitantly.

Freddie spoke again, "You are an officer. You still have one free hand. I'm sure that you have a key."

Dean shook his head. "No I do not," his statement was muffled. Dean bit the offender's hand, but he didn't move in the slightest.

"Well that makes things a whole lot more interesting." The man snarled, still grasping Dean's body. "Now, listen to me. Like I said before, I just want a little chat. Do you think we can accomplish that without you calling for aid?" The man pulled a key from the inside of his shoe. "I have a key myself. When I say we are done, then we are done. I'm sure we will be done our little conversation before those two get back." The inmate looked down upon Dean. "Do you think you can handle that, quietly?"

Dean dipped his head. "Good." He released Dean from his grasp, and let the young officer take a couple of deep breaths before speaking. "Mr. Stanton, I think it would be a pleasure to get to know you a little more. You seem like a very young and sophisticated man."

Dean attempted to free his hand from the cuffs, but it was no use. "Yes, you are true on both parts, but we are not allowed to share such private information with convicts such as yourself; or anyone in the workforce."

The inmate cocked his head to the side. "But you share it with your co-workers."

"They are my friends," Dean said with authority.

"The depression sure has settled down here in America, hasn't it?"

Dean silently agreed whilst playing with the cuffs. "Yes, everyone knows that."

"Tell me, what do you think about our world? What is your philosophy on life?"

Dean thought for a moment, but nothing really came to mind. It was blank space.

"It's a stupid, cold hearted bastard. That is what the world is…Dean."

Dean shuddered. He shouted at the prisoner. "Don't call me that!"

"It's a free country, Dean! I can call you whatever I want; just like I call Mr. Howell, Brutus, and Mr. Edgecomb, Paul. But back onto the subject, life sucks…and that's how it is. Wouldn't you like to change that, change the world, fight for what you believe in?"

Dean shook his head and laughed. "What are you trying to get at Freddie?"

The inmate scratched his head. "You closed your accounts, yet you are still worried about your money; I can see it in your eyes. You are overly tired, the redness accompanies the worry. Your hair isn't as neat as it was before, and there are specs of dirt on your uniform. Not to mention that it is only eleven o clock, meaning that you didn't wash it the night before." There was an awkward pause, before Freddie finally broke the silence. His voice carried throughout the corridor. "You are filthy, and I'm sure you are tired of it; along with the rest of the world. But now it is time to change that filth, it is time to change you. It's what you want and everyone else wants. Be who you want to be, don't let others push you around. You want to know why?"

"Why?" Dean challenged.

Freddie sported a menacing expression. "Because I believe in you, and I believe in the best of your ability. Don't be scared of this cruel world; it's a bully. Fight for what you believe in, no matter what situation. That way, you will be recognized, and people will treat you with more respect. The Earth is just a bully, but only you alone can stand up to that. I want you to think about that Dean…I want you to think about that real hard." The inmate waved the magic key, and removed the handcuffs from Dean's wrist. "I'm done talking. Thank you for listening attentively. But let me tell you one more thing."

"Yeah," Dean responded while rubbing his wrist. He detached the cuffs from the metal bars.

"They are going to find you, and rip you apart."

"Who is?"

But Freddie didn't answer the question. Instead, he casually walked back towards his thin bed, and lay down facing the wall. Dean could hear strong footsteps pacing through the hallways. He hurried to his feet, turning to look, finding both Paul and Brutus meeting at the main desk. Dean ran towards the two men, slowing down as he drew closer.

Paul scanned Dean from head to toe. He noticed Dean feeling his wrist occasionally. Paul raised an eyebrow. "Are you alright, son? Your wrist is raw."

Dean shook his head. "My wrist is alright, boss."

Dean couldn't believe it; he didn't say a word about Freddie's lecture, and how he had handcuffed him to the cell bars. He didn't talk about their struggles, or the pain he was dealing with; he was silently defending the inmate. The guards were unaware of the commotion that took place ten minutes ago. Paul turned his back, blocking Dean, most likely talking private matters with Brutal. Dean was the baby of the family, the newcomer. He had worked at the mile for a little over five years, but to them, he was still the baby, and sometimes the unreliable one. He's proved himself before, but he never got much say in anything considering that Harry, Brutus and Paul were his superiors.

Paul peered over his shoulder. "Is there a problem, Dean?"

"No sir," he replied hastily.

"A light needs to be replaced in the office, could you go fix that, please?"

Dean acknowledged. He had no choice but to follow orders; it wasn't all right. They were a team, family, wasn't that true? Maybe Freddie was right, maybe he should stand up to this hard, cruel world and fight for what he really stands for. Dean no longer wished to be pushed around; it was time for him to become a part of the conversation.

* * *

Freddie sat politely inside his cell, singing a tune. He wasn't a great singer, which angered the guards; for their ears were bleeding because of it. Twice a day, they would tell him to either hum, or speak the words; a singing career wasn't worth it. It had been a day since Dean's interaction with Freddie, and none of the guards were anywhere in sight. They had gone into rehearsal for Winnie's execution. While they were away with Toot, the imaginative trustee, Freddie decided that there would finally be a little one on one interaction with the other convicts. Alex and Winnie never talked; it seemed like they needed some company; especially Winnie, who was to die in a couple of hours.

"Winnie," Freddie whispered. Winnie was in the cell across from him, staring at the wall blankly. He gracefully turned his head to find his neighbour pointing a finger at him. "Winnie!"

Winnie bit his cheek. "What do you want, loser?"

Freddie placed a hand on his chest; his mouth was in the shape of an 'o'. "I'm offended."

"Don't sound so sarcastic," Winnie replied.

"Oh come one now. I just want to talk."

Winnie rubbed his forehead. "And lecture me like you did to Mr. Stanton. I don't think so."

Winnie was in the middle of turning his back towards Freddie, but a quick question from the other prisoner stopped him from doing so. "What did it taste like?"

Winnie glanced over his shoulder, confused. "What?"

Freddie clutched onto the bars. His hands wrapped firmly around the metal. "I said, what did it taste like? You are convicted of murder, and cannibalism. What did brains feel like? Warm?"

"How did you know that?"

"Tell me Winnie, are you sorry for what you did?"

Winnie frowned. "Of course I'm sorry. I'm on Death Row for god sakes."

"Did it feel good to kill them? Did it feel good to eat them?"

"Yes!" exclaimed Winnie. "It felt absolutely great!"

Freddie locked his eyes with Winnie. He stared deep into his soul; like he was sucking the life right out of him. "Then why are you sorry?"

Winnie was speechless. What was he supposed to say?

Freddie continued, "If it felt so good, why are you sorry?" He took another breath, "If you can answer that question Winnie, then you are truly sorry for what you did. Let me tell you from my standpoint."

"Enlighten me!" Winnie yelled, wakening Alex from his constant slumber.

Freddie slightly tilted his head. "I'm not sorry for what I did. In my point of view, those sixty plus people had it coming. The world didn't need crazy activists like them; not when the world was still recovering from the war." He ascended, still clutching the bars, banging his head against them. "But I'm not sorry, because it made me feel good. How can a drug addict stop? He can't. Not when he feels good as he does it; so why stop? There is a saying I go by: if you are going to die, die by doing something you love. Don't you agree?"

Winnie bit his tongue, agreeing with his point of view.

"Are you afraid of dying?" Freddie hurled the question.

Alex's voice echoed. "Stop it, Freddie."

Winnie ignored Alex, "I am, just like everybody else. And I am dying because of something I did."

"No," Freddie shook his head, and stalked around the cell. "You committed the crime, but you are dying as punishment for your actions; you are sorry. If I was shot on the spot at the massive suicide I took part in, I would have died knowing that I died by something I loved. In your case, you are dying because you are sorry."

Winnie clenched his fists; his knuckles turned white. "Fuck you," he cried.

Freddie laughed as he continued to speak, "If you can prove me wrong, then do so! You know that I am right!"

"Fuck you!"

Alex raised his voice. "Leave him the fuck alone, man!"

Alex received a heart piercing glare from Freddie instead; it felt like he was being stabbed with a dagger. He drew back in fear. He was afraid; even when he was protected behind bars.

The lights above started to flicker as the controversy heightened.

"Do you want to die, Winnie?" Freddie screamed.

"NO!"

"Then find a way not to die!" Freddie lowered his tone of voice; he became calm and collective once again.

Winnie clenched his jaw. "The only way is to get out of this hell hole."

Freddie winked. "You die in two hours. Only two guards will come back to greet you in ten minutes. Boss Howell and Terwilliger will still be accompanying the electric chair. That just leaves boss Edgecomb, and Stanton."

Winnie shook his head. "I cannot do that. I wouldn't get very far."

Freddie disapproved. "Ten minutes is a long time."

Suddenly, a long key was thrown across the mile, sliding perfectly under Winnie's cell; it lightly touched the tip of his toes.

Freddie placed his hands upon his hips. "It's up to you."

Winnie raised an eyebrow.

Freddie answered the question that was playing in Winnie's mind. "The guards walk past me every day and night, and yet cannot feel their items being stolen from their pockets."

"That's where you got the handcuffs," Alex murmured under his breath.

"Hurry," Freddie started, "Ten minutes is a long time, but can pass quickly."

Quick as a flash, Winnie got up and wrapped his right arm around the bars, finding the key hole. He placed the key firmly inside, and slowly unlocked the door. Like a serpent, he slid from the opened cell, and crawled down the green linoleum. Once he reached the main desk, he glanced both ways, making sure the guards weren't coming out from the execution room. He examined the door on the other side; it wouldn't be long before they returned. Winnie gazed upon the desk, and observed a gun. He snatched it, placed it behind the back of his trousers; and exited the prison with a BANG!

* * *

The guards on E block heard the sound clear as a whistle; they stared at each other for a couple of seconds. They had almost finished cleaning, and putting up chairs in the execution room; and the many people ready to witness the convict in the electric chair would be at the prison in less than two hours. They waited a moment until all was quiet, too quiet. Without another thought, the four guards quickly hustled from the execution room, and sprinted into the mile. Paul's first instinct was to check the prisoners. See if there was any confrontation between them; or if one of them was hurting themselves because of the constant strain they were under. Paul peeked into the first cell; Alex was quiet as a mouse; yet attentive. Paul continued to run down the Green Mile, and found one of the inmates screaming at the top of his lungs. "Boss, boss, he couldn't handle it!" Paul snatched his baton from its holster and hit the bars.

"Jesus," Paul started. "What in Christ's name are you yelling about?"

"Paul!" Brutal shouted from the other side of the room. His voice echoed.

"What?" he glanced over at his three coworkers who were now a whiter shade of pale.

"The gun is gone."

Paul focused back onto Freddie, who was pointing over Paul's shoulder. "Boss, he's gone! He's gone!"

Paul shifted his body 180 degrees, and stared in absolute horror; staring into an empty cell. He slowly looked down at his feet, only to find a key on the floor. Paul had never sprinted so hard in his life. He ran to the steel door, where Winnie exited, and fiercely opened it.

Harry spoke, "Paul, what's wrong?"

Paul bolted out of the prison; the other guards didn't question. Instead, they followed; all pulling their revolvers from their belts. All four guards looked around the prison yard in the dark. There was no sight of the escapee.

The sound of a gunshot was heard. The four guards twisted their heads in several directions, trying to figure out where the shot had been fired. Paul peered at a spotlight; which was now placed into one position. He drew towards the light; the others quickly trailed behind. As they turned the corner, they found an empty area in the yard by a barbed wire fence. And just below the fence, there was a silhouette. The guards had their guns raised above their heads. As they drew closer and closer towards the figure, their eyes widened as they observed a body, crumpled onto the gravel; not moving. They didn't say much; they just stared at the body.

Finally, Dean broke the silence. "Oh, shit."

Winnie didn't get very far that night. He had beaten the main security, but couldn't stand up to the fence; it was more than ten feet high. At the top were razor sharp barbs that could cut a man's hand to scraps. As he climbed the fence, the light of doom had spotted him; and in less than two seconds, a sniper attacked Winnie from behind. He died instantly, and hit the hard ground with a large THUMP! He died an hour before his execution; and they all knew that both the witnesses and the Warden would not be pleased.

* * *

On the inside, Alex collapsed leaning against the bars, weeping. Both Freddie and Alex heard the piercing gunshot, and knew that Winnie was dead. Alex was shocked at first, but then realized that a close friend of his was killed in an instant; life can be so cruel. Freddie was the exact opposite; he was pleased with himself. His back was against the wall in proper stature, and he stared down at poor Alex; who was new to the world of life and death. He had a different perspective on how one's decisions can affect an individual's fate. If Winnie wouldn't have attempted the escape, he would have died peacefully. Alex glanced upwards, growling at Freddie from under his breath; Freddie could hear the other prisoner loud and clear.

"What?" Freddie started, "I'm just doing what I love, and I'm not sorry about it."

Just then, Freddie pulled a cigarette and a lighter from under his pillow. He placed the cigarette into his mouth, and lit it. He inhaled and exhaled the drug slowly, "Now you are the first to know Alex."

Alex breathed quickly. Tears strode down his face, he couldn't help it. It was too much all at once.

Freddie stared at Alex with a disinterested expression; not one emotion withdrew from his face. It scared Alex, it scared him good. "Alexander, now you know just how dangerous I can be."

* * *

_Chapter five is next..._


	5. Playing With the Mind Part 2:

**AN: R&R!**

* * *

Playing With the Mind Part 2:

The guards returned in a haze; they didn't know what to do next. They were still trying to comprehend what had just occurred. A man practically committed suicide that night before his execution. It angered the guards, for how could they not have prevented such an action from happening? Harry and Brutal slowly marched past Alex. Harry noticed that his eyes were puffy and red; as if he was crying. They inspected Winnie's former cell; Brutal snatched the key from the floor. The guards were curious as to how on earth a simple key could have slipped from under their grasp, and into the hands of a cannibalistic murderer. Brutus scanned the environment surrounding him, and witnessed what Harry saw in Alex; he was fearful and distant, huddled by the cell bars, escaping from all reality. He focused his attention towards Freddie; who calmly returned a pained expression. The two prisoners knew that there would be an investigation, and that various questions would need answering; not just from the guards or reporters, but from the crime unit.

Paul casually stepped in Alex's direction, and knelt to his level. Brutal slid the magic key into Paul's hand. Paul elevated the key at eye level; he breathed deeply before speaking. "You know what this is?"

Alex replied, his voice dry and raspy. "Yeah, it's a key."

Paul wrinkled his nose. "And what does this key do?"

Alex hesitated to answer; hoping that he was providing the right answer. "It opens something."

"Like a door?"

Alex slowly nodded, while staring at the green linoleum.

"Alex, there is always a witness in a crime. This is a brutal offense. Now, can you tell me how on earth Winnie was able to get his hands on this key?"

Alex peered over Paul's shoulder, gawking at Freddie, who was staring creepily with his silver eyes. The two prisoners had made a pact. Winnie threw the first punch, they were just innocent bystanders told to shut up. As long as Freddie didn't get into serious trouble over the situation, then Alex would be protected from harm. In that case, Freddie would make sure that the mind's eye wouldn't overpower Alex like it did to Winnie. The mind is a powerful weapon, and Freddie knew that, that power should never go to waste.

Alex lied, "Winnie stole the key from you guys when you were not looking. It must have been another guard, because his back was foolishly close to his cell. He just reached out, snatched it, and hid it under his pillow case."

This was all too familiar with Dean.

Paul continued questioning, "Why didn't you tell any of us, if you saw it happen?"

Alex didn't know what to say; he was backed into a corner. Freddie decided to intervene. "I saw it too boss. The reason I didn't get you guys was because I wanted to teach you all a lesson." Freddie turned his head towards Dean; he shuddered. "Take good care of your stuff, because one day you may get stabbed in the back; or worse, shot."

Brutal took a hold of Paul's arm, and murmured into his closest ear. "So what are we going to do?"

Paul puckered his lips. "Well, the whole prison heard the shot. It isn't unlikely that Hal already knows."

"They'll want to do an investigation."

Harry grew worried; an investigation wasn't the most welcoming thing in the world. Especially if the human race knew that a prisoner was able to pick pocket a key when their backs were turned. Brutus saw the worry upon Harry's face; he accompanied him. "They will ask further questions to the inmates. If Freddie stays true to his word, and says that the mistake wasn't on our hands, then it will be a message directed to all guards. This isn't the first time something like this has happened on Cold Mountain prison; just not on the Green Mile."

Brutus' reassuring was enough to convince Harry that nobody's jobs were on the line; something like this was extremely rare. It was chaotic, and a constant freak show. Brutal saw Paul, and noticed that he wasn't worried in the slightest; which reassured Brutal himself. He breathed a sigh of relief.

Paul spoke, "Well, he's dead. And we carry on with our lives."

* * *

That night, Harry got an unexpected surprise; he was to work the night shift. In return, he would have all of Sunday off; the day of Paul's dinner invitation that he accepted long ago. He found himself at the desk, still shaken by the incident that occurred only a few hours ago. The investigators arrived earlier, questioning the Warden, the sniper who killed Winnie, and the prisoners on E block. It was a surprise that none of guards on the mile were questioned. Freddie stayed true to his word like Brutal said. It was three o' clock in the morning, and each minute did not pass quickly. He was alone on the mile; which was considered dangerous, but he doubted that anything out of the ordinary would occur. He was actually pleased that some excitement finally came back into their jobs. It was an adrenaline rush so powerful that his hands were still shaking. The death of Winnie was a cruel tragedy, yet he couldn't help, but smile.

After working long and hard on what he does best; paperwork, Harry decided to take a quick lunch break. He swiveled his body around, and grabbed his silver lunch box. He slammed it against the table. After opening the box, he withdrew a sandwich, fruits, vegetables and a small carton of milk. As he took a bite of his sandwich, he decided to peer at his personal paperwork. The crash was taking a toll on his bank statements, and if he didn't close his accounts soon, he could potentially be in debt. The crisis unnerved everyone in some sort of way. In Harry's case, he was extremely anxious. He bottled his emotions frequently, causing him to explode over the tiniest of situations. He scared his wife last night, and felt terrible afterwards. He'd been married for twenty five years, and snapping at his wife for something totally unrelated to his financial problems was unacceptable. He never raised a hand to the very woman he loved before; it was his first time. Harry never mentioned their financial crisis; it was the cherry on top. Harry convinced himself that he would tell his wife about their bank statements before dinner at Paul's, or else trust issues would ensue if she found out by surprise. Harry scanned his accounts, and nothing was getting any better; everything seemed to be getting worse. He licked his fingers before flipping the page, and discovered a family portrait of his wife and three daughters attached to the page with a paper clip. The picture was taken five years ago, and hasn't been updated since, but it was still the family that Harry loved and treasured to this day. Harry managed to walk all three of his girls down the aisle, and it still pained him to this day. He missed them. But he didn't fail at being a caring father and a loyal husband; he was proud of that.

Whistling was heard at the far end of the mile. Harry slowly removed the glasses from his face and gazed into the distance. He knew that Alex was in a deep slumber, so Freddie was the only one making unnecessary noise. He couldn't carry a tune whether his life depended on it. Harry was too tired and lazy to get up from the chair, "Shut the hell up, Freddie!"

Freddie stopped. "Boss, I need to talk to you."

Harry shook his head, "I'm not interested." He picked up a quill, dipped it in ink, and began writing on a piece of parchment.

Freddie was persistent. "No, I really need to talk to you."

"About what," questioned Harry. "What would you possibly need?"

"What crawled up your butt and died?" the inmate scowled.

"Sorry," Harry hesitantly apologized, "I'm having some issues right now."

Freddie took advantage of the situation. "What kind of issues?"

"Nothing of your concern, got it?" Harry placed a small mug in front, and poured alcohol into the glass. Drinking alcohol during working hours was an offense, but it had been a long and stressful day. He needed to drown his many sorrows as quickly as possible. Harry never drank, so the gin was probably over twenty years old.

Freddie pressed his face against the bars, seeing with his parallel vision, the alcohol. "Boss, can I have some?"

Harry took a swig and laughed aloud.

The prisoner continued, "It looks like you had a long and stressful day; with Winnie's death and all of your…bank problems."

Harry sat frozen in his chair, "How did you know about that?"

"I observed you well, and noticed that anytime somebody brought up the issue of finances, or even the possibility of losing your job, it worries you, and stresses you out. You need to learn how to relax. If you keep this up, you are going to die of a heart attack way before your fifties." Freddie admitted.

Harry angrily rose from the desk, and hurried to Freddie's cell. He stopped in front, and pointed a finger. "What do you know? Right now, you've got it easy. You are getting free food, health care, and you get a bed to sleep on every night until you die! Unlike you, I've got to fight for it."

Freddie shrugged, "It doesn't concern me, but it seems that you don't express your emotions often."

Harry nodded, and looked down at his feet. "I don't."

"Do you want to talk about it?"

Harry didn't want to talk about it. In fact, he wanted to walk away, but he needed somebody to talk to. A murderer or not, the man was still willing to listen. Harry stayed firm in his position and started to speak about his private matters. It was against the rules, but Harry didn't care at this point; everything was going to shambles.

But in mid-sentence, he changed his mind. "No."

Freddie tilted his head upwards, staring at the ceiling. "I see that you are a married man."

Harry scratched his head in irritation. "Yes, I am a married man; twenty five years and counting."

Freddie raised both eyebrows. "Congratulations, and you have children?"

He shook his head up and down. "Yes, I have three girls. They are all married now."

Freddie smiled with satisfaction. "Boss, the way I see it you are very stressed and anxious. It's tearing you apart. I believe that it affects your family regardless of whether you are humble or not."

Harry clenched his fists. "Are you saying that I abuse them?"

Freddie shifted his eyes to the side. "Not particularly. You are a humble and gentle human being. I couldn't see you doing such a thing."

"Because I don't," Harry cut into the conversation.

"Do you love them?"

"What kind of god damn question is that? I love all my girls." Harry paused to catch his breath. "If I lost any of them, I wouldn't know what to do."

Freddie shot his arms into the air, and stretched. Was he mocking Harry? "I guess that is up to you." A shiver ran down Freddie's spine. "I sense that a bad aura is in the air."

Harry shook his head in disbelief, "Why am I talking to this guy?"

"The bank will swallow you whole. If that happens, don't take it out on your family." Freddie placed the tip of his fingers underneath his chin, focusing his attention back onto the brick wall.

The offender made Harry seem like an asshole, but that was not the case. Again, he was a humble and gentle human being. Like Brutal, he wouldn't dare hurt a fly; he just did his job. Every now and then, fights between him and his wife would occur over the strangest things. But they would forgive each other in the end. Many couples disagreed; it's what tests the relationship. Freddie said the weirdest things. Did he really sense that an unfortunate event would occur at the mile, in his life, or in the world? Harry didn't have a clue what the man was talking about in the slightest; to him, it was all garbage. Harry sighed, and slowly walked away from the cell; thinking about his family, and how he couldn't wait to go home, and caress his loving wife in his arms. As he left the scene, Freddie piped up again. Harry rolled his eyes, annoyed.

"Can I still have some of that drink?"

Harry glimpsed at the glass of alcohol clenched inside his fists; he thought to himself. He never drank, and he was doing so because of a bad day? It was a terrible habit that one may never break. He was disappointed and disgusted in himself for doing so. Harry nonchalantly made his way to the washroom, and dumped the remainder of the alcohol into the sink; he washed it away with water. When all was said and done, he threw the mug into the nearest trash container, and carried on with his work at the desk.

* * *

Paul remained at home, assisting his wife, who was preparing the feast for Sunday evening. The dinner was a gathering of friends and family; something that they seldom did, three times a year maybe. There was going to be at least thirteen people attending the dinner; and enough food to feed sixty individuals. Brutal, Harry, Mary, Dean, his wife Emily and two young children, Paul, Jan, his son, accompanied with his wife, and Hal and Melinda Moore. Paul's son was in town, running his own errands; while his wife was helping Paul and Jan around the house for the dinner. It was a barbeque more or less. Steak, lobster, potatoes, gravy, steamed vegetables, homemade soup and bread, fruit platters, and two apple pies were to be served. Paul wasn't sure whether or not there would be leftovers, but if there was, there would be enough to feed everyone at E block for at least a good week. The Edgecomb family was pleased with the result, and they were expecting guests at any moment.

Jan rubbed the back of her hand against Paul's shoulder; who was staring out of the kitchen window. "Honey, what are you thinking about?"

Paul fully buttoned his dress shirt to the collar, and wrapped a blue tie around his neck. It was going to be a dry and humid evening; he didn't want to dress too formal. Janice wore a beautiful blue sun dress with sunflowers sewn around the hem. She wore a sunhat over her blonde hair, and looked as beautiful as ever in Paul's eyes. He was a lucky man to be married to such a gorgeous woman; and some days, he wasn't able to comprehend it. "I'm thinking about the wonderful time that we are all going to have tonight."

Janice grinned, "I'm sure it will. Come along, we haven't finished."

A loud knock roared throughout the Edgecomb residence.

"I'll get it," Paul shouted as he burst to the door. He quickly opened it, and found Brutus with a small pot in his hands. He was wearing dress pants, and a green shirt accessorized with a black tie. He was sweating along the forehead; it was most likely a result from the constant heat. He bent forward, walking inside the large house; Paul was filled with glee.

"Hello Paul," Brutal greeted with a raspy voice. "Wonderful day, isn't it?"

"Sure is," Paul replied.

Brutal coughed slightly, "Where's your boy? I didn't see his truck on the dirt."

"Oh, he's in town running a couple of errands. His wife is here though." Paul stated as he tossed a thumb over his shoulder. "What's that?" He pointed at the pot in Brutal's hands.

Brutus gawked down at the pot, "Oh, cabbage rolls."

"Did you make them yourself?" Paul questioned jokingly.

Brutal chuckled. "A single man can cook, Paul." He coughed again as he followed Paul into the main kitchen area.

Paul spoke aloud, "Brutus is here."

Janice quickly spun on her heels, facing Brutus. She clamped her hands against his cheeks, and kissed both sides. "It's good to see you again," she smiled. Paul loved it when she smiled.

"Where should I put this?" Brutal asked.

Jan tucked in a lone strand of hair behind her ear. "Just place it on the counter. Now you boys go outside, and get the grill going."

And both Paul and Brutus did so. They shared a beer together as they huddled around the barbeque, cooking cow. The slabs of meat were marinated the night before with several herbs and spices that no man could resist. It smelt even more decadent while placed on the heated grill. The two boys stared into the wheat field, enjoying the skyline during its sunset. Once the dinner was complete, Paul planned on using the fire pit; this time, hoping that the flames wouldn't get out of hand. Brutal shared a long glance at Paul before speaking.

"What're you thinking about?"

"About work," Paul answered quickly.

Brutal raised an eyebrow, "You do know that we try not to talk about the mile after work hours." He took a swig of beer.

Paul nodded in agreement. "I agree. We can discuss it over a plate of leftovers tomorrow."

Brutus rubbed the side of his head, "So, how's your family?"

"Good," Paul started. "My boy just married."

"Yeah, I heard," Brutus commented. He had remembered that the marriage was small and was in secrecy, but Paul still approved of the woman. "Why didn't he invite you to the wedding?"

"He's nineteen, Brutal."

Brutal shook his head. "So? You were nineteen when you got married."

"But unlike me, he's still in school."

Brutus sighed, "What's he taking again, law?"

Paul downed half the bottle of beer, before flipping the steaks on their backside. "He wants to be a lawyer."

"There's nothing wrong with that." Brutal gazed down at the meat on the grill; the smell was overwhelming.

"That's almost eight years of school, and he's married now." Paul paused for a moment. Brutal grew concerned for his long-time friend. "We are in a depression. And his wife barely has a stable job."

"It's his life," Brutus started, "And he's an adult. We will have our own opinions, but we can only guide our children so far. Kids make mistakes, and this might be a hard lesson to learn. And when they do finally realize that they made a huge mistake, we can't say I told you so. Like you said, our job at the prison is talking, not yelling. That goes the same for kids, when we have to teach them the right from the wrong."

Paul was impressed with Brutal's lecture. There was a reason that he was Paul's best friend; when in doubt, go to Brutus for advice. "Why aren't you a father?"

"Not everyone has to be."

Paul snickered as he took another gulp of beer. "So, how are things with you?"

Brutal furrowed his brows, "My life is pretty god damned boring." He coughed again.

"You got a tickle in your throat?"

Brutal placed a large hand on his chest. "You could say that. It'll go away eventually."

There was an awkward silence, but it wasn't long before Brutal's voice came into play.

"I'm concerned about something, Paul."

Paul focused his complete attention towards Brutus. "What are you concerned about?"

"Dean."

Paul was shocked to hear such a thing come from Brutal's mouth. "Why, what's wrong with Dean?"

Brutus wiped the sweat along his forehead. "He snapped at me."

Paul stared back at the steaks. "It's not like Dean, but every man is under strain at some point in his life. He's probably tired" –

"No, Paul." Brutal interrupted, "This is different. I asked him to do a simple task, and you know what he did? He gave me a five minute lecture on his duties at Cold Mountain. He feels inferior to all of us. He practically boycotted his whole shift! I wouldn't be surprised if the kid decided to go on strike."

Paul shifted his eyes from side to side. "That isn't like Dean at all."

"After his shift, he apologized." Brutal finished his beer. "Dean is an easy going guy who goes with the flow. And I appreciate his hard work and company. But I've been thinking…" Brutal trailed off, thinking through his thoughts before saying them.

Paul grew irritated, "Spit it out."

"To me, Winnie's death is suspicious. He didn't seem like the man who would try to escape the vicinity hours before his demise."

Paul answered, "I'm sure that any convict there would do anything to escape Death Row."

Brutal bore a gloomed expression, "That may be true Paul, but you have to hear me out. Deans irritated, Harry's anxiety has shot through the roof, and Winnie's death seemed coincidental. They are all linked somehow; and someone isn't speaking aloud."

Paul cut into one of the steaks; checking its consistency. "What is your hypothesis?"

Brutal shrugged, "I'm sure one will come to mind, eventually."

"But there are no hard feelings between you and Dean?"

Brutal smirked, "Hell no, it's just work. What happens on the mile stays on the mile; always has."

A woman's voice was heard from behind.

"A guest is here!"

"Tell them we are outside!" Paul answered.

"Will do," the woman shouted back before entering the house once again.

* * *

_Chapter six is next..._


	6. A Wonderful Dinner

**AN: Please R&R! Follow and Favourite too. :D**

**Take care lovelies!**

* * *

A Wonderful Dinner:

It wasn't long before Dean and his family arrived at the Edgecomb residence. Unlike everyone else in the room, they were a very young family. Dean and his wife were in their early twenties; while their children were approximately around the ages of eight and nine. Paul had gone through the early childhood phase, and knew that young children needed their minds and bodies occupied in some sort of way; usually by playing games with themselves, or with other children and adults. A treehouse and swing still stood its ground in their backyard, but it was a little rusty; though it was still good for playing, and wonderful for the memories that it treasured. Dean and his family walked out onto the patio, greeting Paul inches from the door; Brutal took charge of the barbeque.

"Good evening, Dean." Paul started, shaking Dean's hand with a firm grip. "Good evening Emily."

"Good evening Mr. Edgecomb," Emily spoke in a soft and quiet tone. Her southern accent was heavy; sometimes it was hard to understand the words she said. Emily turned her attention towards Brutus. "Hello Mr. Howell."

Dean waved a hand, "Hey Brute, what cha' cooking?"

"None of your business…it's a surprise."

"Hell it's a surprise," Dean laughed. "Steaks, awe damn they smell fine."

Brutal dusted the charcoal from his hands, and turned to the Stanton family. He gazed down at the two children at either side of their mother's hips. Children were rather shy when surrounded by adults; Brutal knew this from past experiences. It was odd though; he thought that to a child, a man his stature would be deemed terrifying, but their thoughts were the exact opposite. Most youngsters saw Brutal as a big, huggable teddy bear. Last year, Dean's offspring followed the big man wherever he went; it annoyed him considerably. After constant pestering, he finally gave in to their demands. They all enjoyed a quick gamed of tag, hide and go seek, and Brutus even taught the children how to perfect the art of smores by the campfire. He terrified the children with clichéd ghost stories; but all in all, it was one of the best times of Brutal's life. It had been a full year since the children parted Brutus; however, nothing changed in the slightest. They were older now, but they still trusted Brutus; as a friend and playmate; it amused both Dean and Paul. Emily released the two kids from her grasp. "You can go play now," she said to them gently. The children directed their attention towards Brutal. They latched onto his arm, and dragged him away from the very job that he was given.

Dean smiled with glee, "Alexandra and Blaire will keep him occupied for some time."

"Hey kids," Paul shouted. He was able to get their full cooperation. "There's a playground on the other side of the house!"

There was a sparkle in each of their eyes when the thought of a play structure entered their complex minds. Brutal looked at Dean and Emily, he winked. "Call us when dinner is ready."

Paul stood by the barbeque, and noticed that the steaks were ready to be served. Janice was boiling the lobsters inside the house. Emily joined along with the other women. They chatted about world problems; mainly the economic crisis currently storming the world. Some of the women were as quiet as a mouse, whereas others couldn't learn to shut their mouths. Paul enjoyed their company though. Hal and Melinda Moores were the next popular guests to arrive, and approximately half an hour later, Harry and his wife, Mary Terwilliger, decided to attend the festivity. Paul's son arrived minutes after, kissing his dear wife before mingling amongst the other men, with a beer in hand.

When the food and china was set, the guests seated themselves at a large table outside. They seized each other's hands before the meal, and said a quick blessing. It was a prayer to remind everybody that they were the lucky ones. Unfortunately, the unlucky ones in the world were starving amidst the streets; suffering from poor economics. Afterwards, the guests snatched the various foods along the table, and moved in a counter clockwise direction. Everybody carried casual discussions. Harry, Dean, Hal and Paul discussed modern sports; whilst the women chatted about the latest movies; and how cute the latest actors were compared to their own husbands. Paul's son sat beside Dean's kids at the "kiddie table"; Brutal was alongside them as well. Brutus had known Paul's son since the kid was ten years of age. The two hadn't seen each other for over five years, so catching up on life, school and sports were the main subjects of the conversation. They also kept the children in company; Dean's children clung onto Brutus like leeches.

"Brutus," Alexandra yelled. "Do you have any brothers, because I don't like them?"

Brutal laughed. "No I don't have any brothers, or sisters, but enjoy each other's company, because one day, when your sister gets a boyfriend, you can drive him out of the house."

Alexandra bore a face of repulsion. Her tongue escaped her lips. "Boys are gross! I'm never going to get married!"

Blaire copied his sister's expression. "Girls are gross too!"

"Okay, kids settle down."

"Why are you so tall?" Blaire suddenly questioned. The question was so unexpected that Brutal was lost for words.

He pulled out a handkerchief and dabbed alongside his forehead; which was now sweating uncontrollably. Two young kids, plus the sun wasn't a good sum. He coughed slightly before continuing to eat his mountain of food placed onto his platter.

The scene moved to Dean, Harry, Paul and Hal. Paul turned to Dean and smiled. "Your kids are the cutest things in the world. They are going to keep Brutal occupied all night long."

Dean took the bowl of scalloped potatoes, and shoveled them onto his plate. "Yeah, they are a handful, but I love them. Emily and I are thinking of another one."

Paul raised an eyebrow, and gawked at Dean, "Another child?"

Dean nodded, "Yeah, what's wrong with that?"

Hal took a large bite of steamed vegetables, and wiped his mouth politely, "Nothing Mr. Stanton. It's just…do you really want to raise another child in hard economic times such as this?"

Paul agreed, "It's inconvenient."

Dean chuckled. "Having kids is always inconvenient, whether you like it or not."

Harry agreed with Dean's side of the argument. He had three girls of his own; it was inconvenient at the time, all the time, but they got past that obstacle; and he loved them very much. Paul nodded before taking a sip of wine, "What's wrong with you Dean? You seem a little uptight?"

Dean furrowed his eyebrows in frustration. "No, it's nothing."

Paul rolled his eyes and locked his with Hal's, who was finished his meal. Hal peered at his wife, Melinda. They had places to go, and other people to see. "Paul, it was a wonderful meal, but Melinda and I must be leaving. Thank you for having us over; I'll see you at work."

Paul bobbed. "See you tomorrow."

Hal gently took his wife's hand, and wandered off in the distance; the house now blocking the view of the couple. It wasn't long before they were seen down the graveled road; dirt trailing behind them. Paul turned back to face his company, Dean in particular, "What's wrong with you, boy? I hear from Brutal that you snapped at him, gave him a five minute lecture on how our jobs are supposed to be done."

Dean huffed, "It's not about the job; it's about how the people should be treated. Like a democracy."

Paul stared at Dean in shock. "The workforce is a democracy, not a dictatorship. I'm just your supervisor."

Dean responded without hesitation. "Then how come I'm still being treated like a baby. I've been at the mile for more than five years. The least you could do, is give me some respect."

Paul shook his head in disbelief. "Son, we give you all the respect you deserve. And how am I supposed to do that when you are giving me attitude like this? Dean, I've been working at the mile for as long as I can remember, and I'm still learning. We don't make you climb ladders for punishment. We do it, so that you can get a sense of responsibility. You won't be able to hold a key, until you prove to all three of us that you are a responsible human being."

Dean snarled. "So that's it then? When the Warden asks you who should be canned out of the four of us, the first will be me; because obviously, I'm not responsible enough."

Harry became the voice of reason. "Dean, shut up. For just one second, shut up. We don't mean it like that. But you did spark my curiosity." Paul's ears perked. "I've noticed some sort of personality change in the last week; did something cause that change?"

Dean scratched the side of his head; he should have told them sooner, but he was still tentative. "I'm sorry guys. I'm just worried about losing my job, and I'm worried about foreclosure." Dean stabbed his fork into the beets violently. Harry bore a worried expression. Something was bothering the poor boy. Paul started to believe Brutal when he said that Dean's sudden anger issues, Harry's major anxiety and Winnie's attempted escape from Death Row was linked together in some way. Something strange was occurring within the mile; it was infectious and spreading fast. Paul wouldn't be surprised if the next victim was Brutus; but either way, Paul was going to investigate the difficulties, and find out why, how and when these controversies first entered into the Green Mile.

* * *

It was approximately nine o' clock at night, and the campfire was set; the flames dancing amidst the darkness. Dean's youngest, Blaire, was slowly falling asleep by each passing minute, and the family thought that it was a good idea to hit the hay; for it was past the children's bedtime. The problem was that Alexandra was on Brutal's lap, finishing up their third round of smores; and she insisted on staying put. It took a while for Dean to finally convince his daughter that it was a school night, and that she needed to go to bed, because her father had to work early the next day. Dean drove both his children to school every morning, before work. They were great kids! They never got into any trouble, and listened to their parents; even when they disagreed with some of their rules and decisions. The other women were confined inside the house; gossiping over a nice cup of coffee. Paul's son had to catch a plane early the next morning, for he had school to attend the following day. Outside, by the fire were Paul, Brutal and Harry. Brutus was still busy roasting marshmallows, while Harry tightly wrapped a blanket around his shoulders; holding a mug of coffee. All three grown men glowered into the fire, enjoying the heat, and watching the sparks soar into the night's sky. Paul smiled at his friends beside him. They all shared their beams of joy; all relishing the time that they shared together. It was a time where everyone could escape politics and work, and focus on what was most important in life; friends and family.

When the party was finally over, and all went their separate ways; Paul sat on the living room sofa, with an arm around his wife. They both sat in complete silence, focusing on the mantle; which was full of pictures, and vases. They reminisced the night that they adored with their family and friends. Paul whispered into his wife's ear, "We should do that again sometime."

Janice smiled, and once again, the two were together in peace.

* * *

The sun slowly rose on an early Wednesday morning. It had rained the night before, creating a chill in the morning air. Fortunately, the sun would reach its peak, and the heat would radiate to Earth; causing distress to the farmers, and pleasure to ordinary civilians. Drops of excess rain still clung to the flowers, bushes and trees in the fields. It was a beautiful morning, and a perfect one for a morning ride.

Cassandra Casselii loved to ride every morning and night. Her husband owned a farm approximately half an hour outside of town. They harvested oats, and barely every year. She tended the garden, while he tended the tractors and wheat fields. Every day, Cassandra would find the time to take a stroll down the lake, and the gardens surrounding it. Cassandra trotted down a long graveled road, gawking at the beautiful trees and other assortments of vegetation as she passed by. The young woman continued further. Sometimes her husband would ride beside her in the evening, and then make love. Cassandra loved her life as a whole. She had a caring and respectful husband, a beautiful farm, in a beautiful state.

But something ensued that morning. Something hiding within the bushes seemed to have spooked the strong horse. It was nothing but a mere gopher, but to her stallion, it was a monster. It took Cassandra by surprise for she didn't know what had spooked the animal at the time. It wasn't long before the horse jumped onto its hind legs, screaming into the thin air. Cassandra was thrown from the back of the steed; she landed onto her spine with sheer force. But it didn't stop there. The petite gopher continued to scurry, causing the horse to stir into another panic attack. It kicked its legs back and forth, attempting to kill the enemy, but instead, colliding with Cassandra's beautiful face as she tried to stand up from the fall. She was knocked unconscious, but the horse was still extremely alarmed. While the young woman lay unconscious upon the gravel, the uncontrollable animal continued to kick, jumping like a bull in a rodeo. The steed trampled upon Cassandra's complexion. After what seemed like minutes, yet was seconds, the horse stopped, and slightly tapped Cassandra's side. She rolled over, revealing her face; which was covered in blood. Her skull was crushed, making the young woman unrecognizable to a random bystander, let alone a relative. Cassandra Casselii lay halfway into the nearest ditch, limp as a noodle and motionless. The stallion casually walked away; continuing down the road as if nothing had occurred; leaving the lifeless body alone in the dirt.

* * *

Harry Terwilliger ate breakfast alone, near the kitchen's island. His wife, Mary Terwilliger, was a receptionist for the nearest hospital. She did shift work, but her hours were very steady; the mornings usually. Harry didn't work until ten that day, making him selfish enough to sleep in. He wandered around the kitchen, cleaning up the mess he previously made before leaving for work. He was somewhat dressed in uniform. His white dress shirt was buttoned to the collar, and was accessorized with a black tie. He wore his black work uniform pants that were held in place by dark red suspenders. As he cleaned the kitchen, he continued to eat his breakfast, consisting of only white bread and eggs. Harry peered out the kitchen window and observed the sunny morning before him; it was going to be a humid day. He'd have to pack large amounts of water; of course he would be the one prepared; for the others often "forgot." Harry glanced at a small hand clock. It was almost nine thirty; his shift started in half an hour. Harry grasped the dish towel hanging from his shoulder, and neatly placed it on the countertop.

Then a continuous ring was heard throughout the kitchen. Harry turned towards the phone. He let it ring a few times, contemplating whether or not he should answer it. The ringing would not cease.

"Terwilliger residence," he finally answered. "Yes, this is Harry Terwilliger."

* * *

_Chapter seven is next..._

**AN: While you are waiting why not drop a review! It will only take two seconds! Hope you enjoyed this chapter!**


	7. Brutal vs Freddie Part 1:

**AN: Alright, sorry for the slow update, but I promise I'll be faster. School is a little hectic at the moment, but will ease up in the next week or so, YES! Hope you all are enjoying the story. Thank you to you readers, and for those who Favorited and reviewed thus far. Please Drop a review, all those who do will get imaginary cupcakes! LOL!**  
**Also reviews are greatly appreciated, because they really help with my writing, and whether or not the story is getting anywhere. If you as the audience have any suggestions, please feel free to let me know. I appreciate my readers, and will take their ideas into consideration. Also, if you are really enjoying it, please follow! **  
**Luv Y'all!**

_**P.S. I don't own the Green mile. **_

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Brutal vs Freddie part 1:

Paul Edgecomb and Brutal Howell both walked the mile, with a checklist in hand. They were completing an hourly cell check. Everything seemed up to snuff on the Green Mile. Alex was quiet as usual; and Freddie was staring at the ceiling, bored out of his mind. Paul sat at the desk, filing some paperwork. He shifted upwards and observed Brutal doing a thorough search throughout each cell. Brutus attempted to make conversation with Alex, but he was as quiet as a mouse; and wouldn't make a peep, a noise, nothing. It was odd. He used to answer the guards when he was asked a simple question, but nowadays, Alex was silent; as if there was something bothering him, someone making him shut up. Whatever was in the air that day; it wasn't right.

Brutal stopped at Freddie's cell. He was flat on his back, counting the many cracks on the ceiling. Brutus heard quiet speech escape Freddie's lips as he passed, "There's a strange aura in the air."

Brutal shook his head, ignoring every word of the inmate; some days, Freddie didn't make sense at all, and had nothing beneficial to say; yet he was an intelligent man. Brutal stopped and glanced at his pocket watch; it was ten thirty five.

"He's late." Brutal started in a raspy voice.

"Are you getting sick, Brutal?" Paul asked his friend.

Brutal wrinkled his nose, "It's nothing."

Paul sighed, and tossed the pen aside. He leaned back into his chair and folded his arms. "Yeah, he's late."

Just then, a small click was heard; and to no surprise, it was Harry. He was fully dressed in uniform. He walked incredibly slow, and gazed upon his feet as he drew closer towards his co-workers. Once Harry reached the desk, he gawked up at Paul. Paul grew concerned when he scanned the face of Harry Terwilliger. He usually had a smile smothered upon his face, or a neutral expression; but this face was grim. He was constantly shifting his eyes from side to side, and never mouthed a single word.

Paul took a deep breath before speaking, "You are late Mr. Terwilliger."

Harry nodded, and then slowly made his way towards the office. Both Paul and Brutal shared glances. He signalled his head towards the office.

"I'll take care of the mile," Brutal started, "I'll be fine." Brutal reached for a pen on the desk, and started writing upon a clipboard. Paul shifted his body forward, and soon found himself opening the closed door; observing Harry in the corner, staring at a piece of paper. Harry was beet red, as if he was trying to hold something in. His fists were clenched, and Paul could swear that tears were building up in his eyes. Harry relaxed when he realized that Paul was standing in the same room. He turned to his supervisor, and spread out his palms.

"I'm sorry boss," he started quietly. "I need to go home, I can't take it anymore."

"Are you sick?" Paul questioned. "If you are, you should have called in." Paul tried to be the voice of rationality, but Harry wasn't buying it. Harry just shook his head, and tucked in his lips.

"It's worse than sick," Harry started. His voice got quieter and quieter as his speech continued, making it hard for Paul to understand a single word.

"I'm sorry Harry, but you will have to speak up." Paul said, sounding irritable; even though he didn't mean it that way. But Harry didn't care.

Harry was lost for words, but he knew that he couldn't express the situation in any other way, except the simple, painful way. "Paul, there was a death in the family. I got a call half an hour before work."

Paul's heart dropped six feet. His pulse quickened, and he felt as if he was going to be sick. Paul asked the question, but he felt bad for it. You don't go asking that question when someone was in mourning. "I'm sorry, but if you don't mind me asking, who died?" The question sounded appalling, but Harry knew that every detail counted to Paul. He wasn't just his supervisor; he was a great friend who had stuck with him through every conflicting situation that came their way.

Harry swallowed a lone tear escaping his eye. The salty water strolled along his cheek, also dropping onto the papers by his hand. His voice cracked, the coarse words struggling to escape his lips, "My youngest, Cassandra."

Paul took a couple of deep breaths, and slowly walked towards his friend. "You don't have to talk about it."

Harry was quick to answer, "No Paul, I need to talk about it. I need to! I can't bottle up my emotions any longer." Harry tried to hold back the tears as best as he could; he hated showing weakness. He choked, "Her husband called this morning. You see, she likes to take her steed every morning and evening, and spend some quality time alone or with her husband out in the fields, and roads. This morning…the horse came back…but she didn't. It spawned worry on his face, when he looked at the hooves of the horse; which were covered in blood. The horse was tense…her husband had to leave the animal alone, he couldn't tame the creature." Harry paused, and bit his lip.

"Take your time," said Paul with warmth.

Harry nodded in return, "He took his car to look for her. She took the same path every day, so he knew that she couldn't have broken her pattern…" Harry trailed off, but he continued moments later. "He found her…he found her dead. The horse…the, the horse got spooked, and smashed my poor Cassandra's face. It's caved in, Paul." Harry buried his face into his hands; sobbing. He continued talking about the painful situation in which Paul just wanted to flee and hide in a corner. Harry's girls meant the world to him; Paul couldn't imagine losing a child, so young too. "Paul, I saw her. The horse smashed her skull. I didn't recognize her at first…you couldn't identify her. We did, because of the dress she wore, and the colour of her hair. There was blood…there was blood everywhere; on the ground, and seeping from her skull. Do you want to know what it looked like, Paul?"

Paul was silent. Harry continued to weep hysterically.

"It looked surreal. It looked like someone had smashed her skull with a sledgehammer, at least ten times. My baby girl…she's gone, and there's nothing I can do about it!"

Paul felt tears well up in the corners of his eyes. He couldn't imagine losing a child of his own; or even his wife by an unfortunate event. But watching a close friend of his in so much pain broke his heart even further. "Harry, why didn't you call in?"

Harry shrugged, "I don't know! I didn't have time!"

Paul blinked. He placed a hand on Harry's shoulder, and dropped to his knees. Paul embraced his friend in his arms, and squeezed him gently; reassuring him that the incident was unfortunate, but in the end, everything would be fine. It sounded horrible to someone in mourning, but Harry didn't mind. When a tragedy like this occurs, your world stops turning, and you don't give a damn about what people say at that moment, "Why Paul?" Harry whispered into Paul's ear. Paul didn't have an explanation.

"I don't know, Harry. Now, let's get you home. I'll let Hal know what's going on, and I'll phone you guys later today for work related business. Is that alright with you?"

Harry nodded. "Yes, Paul." He then stood upright, and grabbed his belongings. He quickly opened the office door, and bolted from E block. It was pain that no man could handle. Paul took several deep breaths, trying to regain his composure. Brutal stooped by the office, knocking slightly. Paul snapped his head towards the door.

"Brutal, I need to tell you something." There was no sense in hiding this from the second in command.

Brutus entered the room, and grabbed the nearest chair. Did he really want to know what was going on? He slumped over, staring at Paul directly in the eyes with a soft look in his face. His raspy, yet soft voice spoke aloud, "What's going on, Paul?"

Paul attempted to look away; the subject made him feel very uncomfortable. "Harry's youngest daughter out of the three passed away this morning."

Brutus' jaw dropped in utter shock.

Paul continued, "A horse bucked her. They could barely identify her. Harry said that it looked like someone had smashed her face in with a sledgehammer at least ten times." Paul leaned back in his chair, and stared at the many tiles. He couldn't imagine what Harry was going through at the moment; neither could Brutus.

"Jesus Christ," Brutal murmured, staring at Paul with crossed arms. He didn't move in the slightest. "What should we do, Paul?"

Paul shook his head, "I don't know Brutal. Let's just give him our condolences for now, and support him and his family in any way we can. See how life can throw curveballs at you?"

Brutus nodded, "His daughters and Mary mean the world to him." Brutal smiled as he reminisced, "I remember Cassandra. The first time I met her was when she was five years old. God, that makes me feel old. Her and her sisters were just the cutest kids on the face of the planet." He wiped his mouth which was covered in saliva and sweat. The sun was peeking through the blinds in the office, and it was small too, causing the heavily clothed guards to constantly gasp for air. "You and I also attended her high school graduation. She was by far the prettiest girl out of them all." Brutal's eyes became heavy in a matter of seconds, "It's hard to believe that she's gone now. How old was she?"

"Twenty-two," Paul answered, "The same fucking age as my boy."

Brutal rose from his chair. He heard commotion on the mile. It was most likely Freddie singing a tune. Brutal needed a quick escape, so he decided to do a quick cell check, leaving Paul in a dream state. He was thinking about life, most likely, and just how unfair it can be.

Brutus made his way towards the cells. He grabbed a clipboard along the way, and stopped at Alex's cell first. Brutal decided to make conversation once again, "Alex? Are you alright in there? You've been awfully quiet, and haven't eaten lately." He coughed before writing on the clipboard.

Alex shuffled his body, facing Brutus. Brutal's stomach felt like it was lodged in his throat; were those tears escaping the man's eyes? There were so many events unfolding, that he suddenly became confused. What was bothering the poor man? Brutal twisted towards Freddie's cell; of who was smiling gleefully while cleaning his fingernails. Freddie looked as if he hadn't slept in days, but Brutal still had his suspicions. Brutus slowly paced towards Freddie. He spoke, "Freddie, what are you saying to Alex? Did you upset him in any sort of way?"

Freddie avoided eye contact.

"You better speak to me Freddie, or I'll come in there and make you," Brutus threatened. Because of Freddie's physically challenged body, it didn't take long for him to talk.

"I didn't say anything. You know Alex…he never talks."

Brutal had no choice, but to agree.

But then Freddie brought up a quick subject to take his mind off of his suspicions. "You are very tall Boss Howell."

Brutal rolled his eyes. "Thank you captain obvious," he started. "So what is your point?" He stared back at his clipboard, the pen moving in several swift motions.

Freddie grinned. He grasped the cell bars tightly, and rested his forehead between them. "When did you get so tall?"

Brutal scoffed, "Grade eleven."

"Perfect," Freddie whispered. "You played football too."

Brutal quickly replied, "Yes."

Freddie paused for a moment or two before asking the question, "Why did you decide to work here? Was it because of your size, or was it because you were a college dropout?"

Brutal felt extremely offended. He turned his back, and started to walk away from the scene unfolding. "Where are you going Brutus? Don't tell me you are turning your back on me now. I asked you a simple question. Why did you choose this career?"

Brutal turned, and charged at Freddie. The inmate jumped slightly. "I'm here, because I was a college dropout, alright?"

"Tsk, Tsk Brutus. I know that." Freddie slowly wandered inside his cell; glaring at Brutus with his piercing eyes. It reminded him of Jack Van Hay's eyes; striking, but with a look to kill. "But as a drop out, you could have done anything. You could have worked on a farm that your father once owned; agriculture is a big business. You can count, can't you? Because of that, you could have easily worked as a teller at a local bank. Or you could have been a measly factory worker. But tell me Brutus; why did you decide to work at Death Row. Does it have anything to do with your stature, your personality, or the white crimes you once committed? What is it Brutus?"

Brutal tilted his head to the side with a frown; Freddie did the same, except with a neutral expression plastered onto his face. "I knew it," Brutal whispered, but Freddie could hear it as clear as day. The convict ignored him though, and carried on with his measly life; what he had left that is.

"You did some things in your last high school year that you aren't exceptionally proud of. I can see it through your body language. Hear it through the sound of your ragged, yet gentle tone of voice. And it's in your eyes." He sat down, and took two fingers, pointing them at his face.

Brutal slammed the clipboard against the cell with a large CLANG! The board snapped in two. He was surprised that Paul didn't come running out of the office. Brutal forcefully reached into the cell, and grabbed onto Freddie's collar, pulling him close. "What kind of game are you playing, huh?"

Freddie didn't move an inch, nor did he show any sign of weakness. "What are you going to do to me, beat me? Even though you are big in stature, you don't seem like the guy who would want to hurt people unless necessary; which gives me good reason that you were just a bystander in high school. Do you want to tell me why?"

Brutal delved deep into Freddie's eyes, and concentrated hard at his target. "What did you do to Dean? He's not himself anymore. And Winnie, you were a part of it. I think I have a good understanding of it now…" Brutal trailed off. He analyzed the man before him. "You play with the mind like it's a toy. That's how you were able to persuade all of those people you killed."

"It was their decision to die for what they believed in. I didn't kill them physically, I killed them mentally." Freddie sleekly grinned. Brutus knew that Freddie had something up his sleeve. "Brutus, you have to understand something. I may be little, but I can take anybody off the street, and convince them to do things that are unimaginable; for example, turning against their friends and family, murdering innocent lives; and in most cases, killing themselves." Brutal, clenched his fist that was holding onto Freddie's shirt, tighter and tighter by each passing moment. "I can take someone like you…and pick you apart bit by bit, until you can't handle the truth any longer. That's what I can do, and I can do it in prison. You saw the aftermath of Dean; that was my work. Harry will be going to the bank any time today in hopes to attempt to close his accounts, for the third time. I can't imagine, considering that the way the economy is he is already two hundred dollars in debt; forcing him to spend at least half of his retirement savings that he just took out of the bank. And considering that he'd shown up for work, and only stayed for half an hour of his shift concerns me. It tells me that something unsettling happened; spiking his anxiety even further. He will come back to me Brutus, and because he is so upset, not even you or Paul will be able to stop him." Suddenly Brutal's hand seemed to have loosened from the collar. Freddie touched the metal of the bars with such interest, and innocence. "In Winnie's case...I had nothing to do with it."

"Liar!" Brutal screamed.

Freddie raised his hands in surrender, "I've got Dean and Harry within my grasp. Not to mention the other inmate, in which I've been able to keep quiet. I've got him in my grasp as well; the poor bastard. Did you know that Alex committed several crimes involving shop lifting, rape and murder? He was only caught and charged for one. And did you also know that he was neglected as a child, and showed several signs of becoming a sociopath at the age of thirteen." Freddie took another breath. The tension rose in his voice when he continued to speak. "And once puberty hit, he was so ashamed of himself that he would masturbate dozens of times in the day just to please him; because he was too poor, dirty, and scared to be with any partner; man or woman. If I were him Brutus, I'd murder people too."

Brutal grabbed his handkerchief in the back of his pocket, and wiped his forehead; not losing eye contact with the inmate. "And soon, I will have Paul, and then I will have control of you. That's my plan before I die. That's if I don't kill you first."

"Is this a death threat, Freddie?" Brutal challenged.

Freddie smirked, "I'm going to be in here for a few weeks, and it is quite boring. I'm just trying to find something entertaining."

Brutus couldn't believe this man, it was sick. He would crack open someone's psychosis like it was a science project. He was intellectual in the mind, smart, handsome, clean and had all the features that did not match a killer's profile. The simple stereotype of a serial killer was long gone now. Brutus had to give word to Paul about this conversation with Freddie, so that everyone should know that talking with this man was very dangerous, and that if he started delving into personal material, that you would keep calm and walk away from the situation. This man was treacherous and ruthless towards the complex mind. Brutal was still curious though, as to know Freddie's past before he was caught for murder. Brutus knew that he should stay away from the man, but there was something about him that made Brutus wants to keep coming to him; coming to him with questions, and expecting answers. What was wrong with him!? Why did his interest just spark with curiosity, it wasn't right. If he was to probe into deep conversation with Freddie, he would have to do it cautiously, and quietly. He wouldn't tell Paul just yet.

Brutal took several deep breaths, and picked up the broken pieces of the clipboard. "Here's the thing Freddie. I hope we meet in conversation again, but for the love of god…stay away from the people you have already manipulated; or I will come inside and beat you to a pulp. I may be a gentle soul, but I can scare a prisoner when it is necessary. Do you understand?"

Brutus had a way with words; it caused Freddie to give a warm smile, and make a quick deal. "I understand Mr. Howell. I'll leave them alone if it is what pleases you."

And it did please Brutal, considerably.

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_Chapter eight is next..._

_Please review! I'll love you forever!_


	8. A Man and His Revolver

**AN: I don't own the Green Mile! Please R&R!**

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The Man and his Revolver:

Brutus was working the night shift, and there were neither floaters nor other guards at the moment. They were short one guard, and the floaters were too lazy to get their asses over to E block. It was dangerous to be alone on the mile, accompanied with the prisoners; but Brutus was large enough to take down three convicts if such a situation occurred. Brutal walked along the mile, trying to pass the hours upon hours of doing absolutely nothing. He could only stare upon the prisoners with pity. Alex was weeping in a corner. He was to die in a couple of days, and the mile was going to receive a new convict only a few weeks later. Ever since the depression occurred, more and more people started committing crimes, just to get by in life. Brutus was fortunate enough to take the money and run with his accounts, but he felt for the many civilians who were struggling. Unfortunate events sent many to jail, maybe a couple onto Death Row. Brutal tapped on the cell bars with his baton, trying to get Alex's attention. He wanted to talk with the man, and see what the problem was at hand. Most of all, he wanted to know what the hell Freddie was saying to the lowly prisoner. He was probably badgering him, and toying with his mind. It looked like it; it looked like it was tearing him apart.

"Hey Alex," he greeted with a warm and compassionate smile. Brutus looked over his shoulder, and was relieved to see Freddie caught in a deep sleep. "Can I come in?"

Alex turned to face the guard and nodded. Brutal whipped the cell keys from the back of his pocket and twisted the key inside the keyhole. He opened the cell with a BANG, but it didn't seem to wake the other convict. Brutus quickly snatched a chair, and placed it inside the cell. He seated himself in front of the offender, leaning back and crossing his arms. "What do you want boss Howell?"

Brutal bore a soft expression upon his strong face. His voice soothed Alex considerably. "I need to talk to you about something important."

"Yes," Alex started. "It's about Freddie, isn't it?"

Brutus was predictable, and his curiosity had shown for the last day. "Yeah, what happened to Winnie?"

Alex ruffled his hair, "I cannot say."

"Why?" the guard questioned.

"Because," Alex started. "I'm not allowed to, or else Olson will come and kill me. Honestly, I want to die by the electric chair, not Olson."

Brutal was very confused at the situation. He squinted, "Who is Olson?"

Alex glanced to the side before looking back at Brutus. His sad expression grew to one of concern. "Boss Howell, are you okay?"

Brutal raised an eyebrow, "Of course, why?"

"You look dead. You should see your eyes. They weren't like that yesterday."

Brutal quickly rose from the chair. He closed the cell door, and locked it before running into the washroom; he bolted it tight. Shuffling into the small room, Brutus whipped his tall body towards the mirror; staring at it with pure concentration. As he gazed into the reflecting glass, he noticed that his appearance had changed considerably over the past few hours. His eyes were a bloodshot red, and the color from his face had completely drained. He suddenly felt weak; as if his bones were slowly turning into limp noodles. Brutus placed a hand onto his forehead, it was extremely warm. Then there was internal pain; his stomach was slightly churning, and his chest felt heavy. Every now and then a coughing fit would arise, but it would eventually go away. Last but not least, Brutal folded his pant leg up to his knee. He leaned downwards, gazing closely at the wound that he received weeks ago. The giant scab receded, but there was a considerably large amount of bruises surrounding the wound; they were a variety of colors and sizes. However, it still felt as if dozens of bees were injecting venom into his leg. Brutal touched the surface of the wound; there was a healthy amount of puss seeping from it. Apparently, he was doing a lousy job of keeping it clean. He washed it with creams every night, but it wasn't enough in this case. Brutus had no choice but to face the fact that he was getting sick. Was it flu season, or was the wound on his leg the catalyst for his ailment? Whatever the case, he hoped that he'd get better soon; but with one guard off for the week, and unable to attend the execution, he had no choice but to come into work, even if he was seriously ill.

* * *

The line was atrocious at the local bank. Again, it was long and Harry Terwilliger was stuck in the middle with nowhere to escape. He scanned the surrounding area. Again, strange men were loitering in the corners of the facility, and following whoever looked vulnerable. Harry grew concerned, and drew his attention forward. What was he doing at the bank? He should be at home, resting and spending quality time with his wife. But something strange was happening to Mr. Terwilliger; he seemed very distraught these last few days, after the unexpected death in the family. Harry was mad at the world and mad at himself for no apparent reason; and boy, was he ashamed of it. Earlier that morning, Harry gathered his bottled emotions into one and used all of the juice against his wife; scaring the shit out of her. He never treated his wife with disrespect, so why now? She was Cassandra's mother; and a mother losing her child can be just as painful, maybe even more.

This was Harry's fifth time visiting the bank, and they were starting to call him by name; it was rather scary. Because of these past occurring events, Harry's anxiety reached above its limit. He was angry, and desperately needing to close his accounts. The guard knew that he was in debt, but he prayed to the lord almighty that his hunch wasn't true. No matter what alternative Harry used, the bank knew how to suck him dry.

"Next!" A voice yelled. It was the teller he had met on his first meeting, and the fourth. She was friendly at first, but in the end, hopeless. Harry crawled to the teller, and looked up with fire in his eyes, he knew it; this was the day that things would change. That the accounts would close, and that he could start anew, start fresh. Then he could deal with other matters; such as his daughter's funeral. "How can I help you Mr. Terwilliger?"

"Oh, uh…" Harry started quietly. "I need to close my accounts. I need to do it now."

The teller scoffed, "Sir, I do not know how many times I need to tell you, no."

Harry slammed his hands against the table. "What if I give you money, huh? Will that satisfy you?"

The woman shook her head. "It is a hundred dollar closing fee."

Harry was aghast at the price range. "One hundred dollars…that half a year's paycheck and you expect me, to pay such a hefty price in order to close my accounts?"

The teller smiled; she should be ashamed. She was looking at a file in her hands. She glanced upwards, looking at Harry, quiet as a mouse. "Do you have any idea how much money you owe? Yes, Mr. Terwilliger, I know that you've been doing some home banking, but I assure you that it is a big mistake. The money is safe here."

Harry glanced downwards, and shook his head nonstop. "No, I don't know how much I owe, but let me tell you. I have bills to pay, and my salary keeps disappearing because I got to pay those bills and a grotesque fee, so that I can keep my money safe in this bank. Well, if it is safe here, then where is my money?" Harry was fed up, fed up with everything. He shot his head upwards, and locked his eyes with the teller. He bore a neutral expression, but he spoke with authority. "Now, I know you are going to say that everyone is going through the same thing, and that I should manage my money better. Yes, everybody is going through the same thing, that is true, but to tell me to manage my money when you guys keep draining it from my account. Two weeks ago, two hundred dollars from my retirement savings fund disappeared. And I know that I'm in the negatives, because I have no choice, but to keep borrowing!"

It's because of the crash," the woman attempted to speak, but Harry refused to let her open her mouth.

"Let me finish!" he whispered, "You listen to me ma'am. Close those accounts now…close them now, or I'll do something that I'll probably regret for the rest of my life."

The teller gasped. "And what may that be?"

There was a click. The teller closed her eyes for a quick moment before gazing them upon Harry's chest area. He was holding a revolver. She bore a look of quick surprise, and then fear. Harry nodded as he scanned the terrified look upon her face. "Now, close those accounts or I'll kill you. Do it quietly, and if you yell, scream, whisper, or tell anybody that I'm holding you at gunpoint, I'll kill you. And I'm not dumb, I'll know, got it?"

The teller bit her lip, and quivered. She looked as if she was on the verge of tears. "Tell me what you need?"

"First question, how much do I owe?" Harry started.

"You owe thirty four dollars, and fifty cents." The teller replied frantically.

Harry wrinkled his nose. "Here, I have thirty dollars." Harry placed a hand inside his pant pocket, and pulled out forty dollars of change. He placed the money on the table. "Alright, see this? Here's thirty dollars to get me out of debt, and here's ten dollars, to shut up. I don't want the police getting involved, because well, things could get a little complicated."

The woman didn't hesitate to take the ten dollars, and place it into the pocket of her shirt. She then counted the thirty dollars, and placed it to the side, "Anything else, Mr. Terwilliger?"

Harry nodded, "Yes, those accounts. I want them closed. Now, I'm a good man, so I'll pay for the closing fee. I'll pay five dollars."

The teller took a deep breath. She did as she was told, because she was a good girl. After closing the account, she took a stamp and placed it along his file. She quickly took out a drawer of currency, and counted it along the table. "Here's the rest of your retirement savings; two hundred dollars. The rest is at home I assume, and you had another savings account with another one hundred dollars, are we good?"

"You are a sweetheart, thanks." Harry placed the five dollars on the table in front of him, and traded it for the currency of his own. It was finished, the stress, and the accounts were finally closed. "And please, whatever you do Miss, I'm a father who has just lost his daughter, jail is the last thing my family needs." And Harry exited the bank, through the side door, hoping to avoid the creeps loitering in the corners. Harry speed walked to his car, which was conveniently hiding in the shadows of the alley way. Harry sat inside the car, and placed his keys into the ignition. Afterwards, he sat for a moment, thinking about his actions. Would he have shot the girl if she refused to acknowledge his requests? What has become of him? Harry looked down at the money strangled within his hands. Money wouldn't solve anything. Money couldn't take back the fear he forced into someone, couldn't bring back his daughter, and it wouldn't take back the disgusting hand that he placed on his wife's cheek. Harry looked through the window, and sighed. Harry blinked, a lone tear strolling down his cheek.

Harry crept through the alley, and merged in with the traffic. It was pouring in the city, and most likely on the farm; what a mess the rain would make.

* * *

Harry sat upon the couch in his living room. His wife was sitting on the porch, listening to the thunderstorm. Harry stared at pictures of his children, of his family. It was amazing how the death of a loved one could make your whole world turn in a different direction. He looked at the opened door, staring at his wife in the rocking chair. She was so calm and collective, whereas Harry was sensitive at times; he was truly jealous. He rose to his feet, and casually walked into the porch. He stopped beside his wife, and kneeled to her level. He grasped her hands. As he looked upon her face, he could see the pain that she was enduring.

"Mary," Harry was lost for words.

"Yes, Harry," Mary urged her husband to continue.

"I, I don't deserve you. And I never have." Harry stopped, and bit his lip, but he continued. "I want to say that I am truly sorry for what I did to you the other day. I've been married for over twenty five years, maybe thirty; and I've never laid a hand on you. So why now?" Harry placed a hand on her cheek, and placed a kiss upon her moist lips. She kissed him back, accepting his apology.

Mary smiled. "I forgive you, Harry. And you do deserve me. If you truly didn't then I wouldn't have married the shy, quiet, humorous and honest man that I married long ago."

"Mary, I also must leave you for now. I have to go to the mile for a minute, and talk to Paul."

Mary understood, "What time will you be back?"

"I'm not sure." Harry responded. And with that, he placed another kiss upon his wife's lips, and left the porch. As he made his way past the kitchen, he grasped his coat hanging from his chair; in which the gun was still tucked inside. He whispered, "I'm sorry Mary, but I may never come home."

* * *

Chapter nine is next...


	9. Harry vs Freddie

**AN: This is a Very short chapter, I promise a longer one, and an execution; but most of all, please enjoy! Percy will appear in later chapters when we get closer to the 1932 timeline. We are still in the late 1930's; so hold tight.**

* * *

Harry vs. Freddie:

Harry entered the Green Mile. He tiptoed inside, careful not to make a sudden noise. He scanned the area, making sure that no one was around. He knew that Brutus' shift was almost at an end, and Paul's car was in its lot. The two were nowhere to be seen. He peered through the blinds inside the office, and noticed that neither Brutus nor Paul were there. He guessed that they were shining up Ol' Sparky, or dealing with other matters in another room. Harry slowly crept down the mile, looking into the empty cells as he passed. Nearing the end, he passed Alex's cell; he was tucked into the corner of his bed, his back turned towards the bars. Alex didn't seem to notice.

"You aren't in uniform," A strange, yet familiar voice called. Harry turned to see Freddie, inches from the bars. Harry stopped in front of Freddie's cell. "No guard comes here without his uniform. You aren't supposed to be here are you?"

"I've come to ask a few questions." Harry responded.

"Oh," Freddie said in surprise. "And what are these questions that I must answer?"

Harry licked his lips. "How did you know my daughter was going to die?"

Freddie raised an eyebrow. "I never stated that fact. My sincere apologies by the way; no wonder I hadn't seen you around the past few days."

"You said that there was a strange aura in the air," Harry pointed a finger. "And conveniently, a loved one died that morning. Are you some supernatural being?"

Freddie scoffed, "No, but I've been gifted. My senses are different than regular human beings. They are out of whack. So I guess I learned something new today. I can predict the future," Freddie said sarcastically, as he spread his palms in the air.

Harry huffed, "That's not funny."

"No, you want to know my art, my true talent?"

Harry grew extremely curious. He noticed Freddie's eyes glaring at the object inside his coat pocket. "My art is manipulation. I use it when I get bored. By the way, why is there a gun in your pocket? You haven't come all this way to kill me, have you?"

In a flash, Harry quickly drew the revolver from his coat pocket, and raised it in the air. Harry fired the gun at the light above, as a warning shot; showing the prisoner that the gun was loaded. He screamed at Freddie, "Of course I have, and for good reason too!"

Suddenly, the office door swung open, and Paul and Brutus burst from the room fast like a bullet. Their guns at the level of their eyes, ready to fire at their target. Paul gazed upon the confrontation, and saw a familiar face pointing a revolver at the convict. "Harry," Paul whispered at first, but then elevated his voice; the gun steady in his hand. "Jesus Christ Harry, what are you doing?"

Harry's pistol locked onto Freddie. "You killed sixty people."

Freddie latched onto the cell bars. "Yeah, and what are you going to do about it? Shooting me won't bring those people back!"

Paul's voice continued to carry; he inched closer to the deadly situation. "Jesus Harry, put the gun down!"

Harry's hand started to shake. He was afraid, truly afraid. "I know that," Tears started to well up in his eyes.

Brutus attempted to ease the situation, "Harry, you are a good man! You would do jail time if you pull that trigger!"

Harry ignored Brutus, and continued to focus on Freddie. Freddie leaned forward, "I know why," he murmured. "You didn't come here to kill me."

Harry started to lower his gun.

Freddie continued, "I know the reason," Freddie took a quick breath, "You worthless piece of shit. I mean, why are you standing there holding your gun? Why don't you just shoot?"

The words cut into Harry like daggers.

"I guess you aren't man enough to do so. You aren't the animalistic type. No, you are the cowardly. I mean, if you are going to shoot…do it right now." Freddie showed sympathy in his glowing eyes. "Or are you doing this because you are afraid to, and that you are just hoping, that little sliver of hope, that your friends will do the dirty work for you? Now, isn't that cowardly? How tall are you?"

"5"11," Harry responded.

Paul exclaimed, "For the love of god Harry just put the gun down, or we will have no choice, but to shoot you!"

Freddie smirked, "I've never seen shit that high."

The tears rolled down Harry's cheeks. One by one, droplets of water hit the ground. At first, Harry couldn't hear anything, nothing. "Tell me Harry, am I right?"

"Huh?" Harry snapped back into reality.

Freddie cocked his head to the side. "I said, am I right?"

Harry nodded hesitantly.

The prisoner smiled gleefully, "Don't be so quick to answer. Just prove to me that you are not a coward. Prove it to me."

Paul drew closer, but Brutus was quick to pull him back, "Christ Brutal, for god sakes, Freddie is doing something to Harry, and I need to stop it!"

"I know," Brutus said. "But we don't know what he's going to do. He might shoot us if we get too close. Let's just talk him out of it, and then take the gun."

Paul waved Brutus' arm away, "Fuck that."

Paul was only inches away from Harry, before a twist of events occurred. Harry quickly took the gun, and pointed the head of the pistol inside his mouth. He wailed as he did so. Paul stopped in his tracks. He watched as Harry placed the gun inside his mouth; he could finally hear the commotion, the pain. Paul looked upon Freddie who was making noise against the steel bars.

"Son of a bitch!" Freddie shouted numerous times, "Son of a bitch, do it, do it, do it, do it!"

Paul lashed back, "Shut the Fuck up or you'll be going into the restraint room!" he grabbed a hold onto Harry wrist, and wriggled it. "Harry, you pull that trigger, you aren't coming back."

Harry cried. He hiccuped a few times before speaking. "I…I…I'm worth more dead than alive."

"No, no," Paul started, still firm on Harry's wrist. "You are worth more alive than dead. Please, just lower the gun and we can talk about it like men."

Harry shook his head as he continued to weep, "Why Paul, why her? Why did my little girl have to die? Please Paul, tell me why?"

Paul shook his head. "Harry, I don't know; but believe me, if you pull that trigger, you aren't going to solve the problem, you are only going to create more pain. Not just for your family, but for us. Christ, the last thing we need is another funeral; so please, just lower the gun. Harry, we can get through this together. Believe me when I say so."

Harry paused, the gun still pointed inside his mouth. Just then, Paul could feel Harry's hand go limp. Paul took the opportunity to take the gun. He tossed it aside, the weapon landing in Brutus' arms. Brutal placed the gun behind his belt. Paul supported Harry as the two strolled along the Green Mile, still latching on to Harry's wrist. Brutus followed. "Brutal, stay here on the mile, I'm going to take Harry home. Don't say a word about this to anyone, you understand?"

"Yes, sir," he acknowledged, opening the entrance to E block.

As Harry and Paul left E block, Harry piped up. It was pouring. "Paul."

"Yes, Harry," Paul responded.

"You're a good man."

Paul didn't know how to respond to such a comment; especially coming from a close friend. "We are all relieved that you are okay."

"Are you going to tell Mary?"

Paul didn't hesitate to answer his question. "What happens on the mile, stays on the mile…always has."

* * *

_Chapter 10 is next..._


	10. Discipline

Green mile 10: Discipline

The next morning, Paul was at the front desk near the entrance of the mile, filing some important paperwork regarding his fellow workers, and inmates. He was relieved. It had been a couple of weeks since the questionnaire, but nothing out of the ordinary was occurring; at least not at E block. But it wasn't his concern; his main concern was E block, and making sure that he was keeping the peace every single day. Paul searched through the many papers on the desk, and came to Alex's profile. He flipped through the booklet in his hands. Tonight was the night. Alex was to die at eleven P.M. The paperwork wasn't the hardest part of the job, it was mainly saying goodbye. What people in society didn't know was the humane side of the monsters. They did wrong in their lives, and they were paying for the crimes they committed, but they were still human, and they still bore feelings. It was hard, and nobody but the guards on E block understood. Paul leaned back in the chair and sighed. They were short one guard and the floaters didn't know how to run a perfect execution; well, not under Paul's expectations. They needed more guards on E block, if such an event would occur again. He would let Hal know.

But in the meantime, Paul would have to get the boys to rehearse Alex's execution. Maybe two or three times at most. Paul claimed the head of the execution this time around; Brutal was instructed to take the lead of Freddie's execution. Paul didn't know what to do with Alex during rehearsal. He had no immediate family, and he took part in little to no leisure activity to keep him entertained. I'm sure he would think of something.

Then there were last rights. The majority of convicts stated that they wanted a hearty meal in which they couldn't give. It would be interesting to hear Freddie's requests. It was probably for all of the guards to go die in a hole. It's unpleasant, but it's nothing that Paul's never heard before. Paul listened to the quiet morning in the mile. Dean and Jack Van Hay were enjoying a quick cup of coffee in the office. The prisoners, Freddie was sound asleep. According to Brutal, who had taken Paul's night shift, Freddie was obnoxious and constantly badgering his poor neighbor, whose mind was no match for Freddie's. Brutal threatened to teach Freddie a lesson or two, which in turn, didn't always work. They had to do something about that prisoner. After last night, it was obvious that Freddie was shredding anybody who stepped into his path. The strange convict needed serious discipline; Paul was going to make sure of it.

"Psst," a quiet voice hissed.

Paul's ears perked, he lifted his head from the paper, and gazed down the mile, seeing a hand reaching from the cell bars. It was Alex. "Boss, I need to tell you something."

Paul glanced from side to side before rising to his feet. He took his time following the green linoleum. "Yes Alex, what would you like?"

"I need to talk," Alex was lying on the ground, staring at Paul's feet. "There's someone trying to kill me."

Paul shook his head. "Oh come on dumb boy, no one is trying to kill you. Well, aside from tonight."

"Olson," Alex whispered, catching Paul's attention.

"Olson?"

"That's his name," Alex stared at his own feet which were like jelly. "He's an interesting man. I saw him when you and Mr. Terwilliger left."

Paul raised both of his eyebrows, "Alex, who's Olson?"

Alex gazed upon Paul, his eyes dull like an old penny. "I told you, he's the man trying to kill me."

Paul sighed, "Alex, stop playing games."

Alex couldn't believe his ears. "What, you don't believe me? He, he, he came into my cell last night. He threatened me."

Paul found himself in an awkward position. He turned towards Freddie's cell. Freddie was now wide awake, leaning against the prison bars; his arms crossed.

"What did you do to him?" Paul questioned with authority.

Freddie shrugged, "I gave him a simple idea and he took that idea to heart."

"How long has he been like this?"

Freddie raised an eyebrow, "A little too long. I didn't mean for it to happen. All I said to him was to keep quiet, or my old buddy Olson would drop by and kill him. He's a dumb shit, he believed me. I didn't remind him much, maybe once or twice. But he truly is afraid of Olson."

"What's the backstory," Paul said, intrigued.

Freddie smacked his lips. "Olson was my partner in crime. He was a hit man, a gambler, a drug lord. He's the guy who entertained me every day of my life. But, eventually the juice ran out, and I had no choice but to do it, I was bored. So I shot him with a rifle, a big one too. I'm surprised I was able to bail the city without getting caught by the authorities, but little old Alex doesn't believe that the poor man is dead. He's convinced himself that this man was going to kill him if he uttered a single word to any of you guards, he still is. It was a little joke! I didn't think he'd take it seriously."

Paul stomped his foot against the ground, "Shut up Freddie! You've hurt enough people already. I want you to stay quiet for the rest of the night until the execution is carried out. Your little game could hurt Alex; and we need him alive for tonight, unlike Winnie."

"You –"

Paul smirked, "Oh yes, I know you handed Winnie the key. I'm not dumb. And I'm the boss here. You need a little discipline, and I assure you that we need to find you some better entertainment. Tell me, are you fond of art?"

"Art in what form?" asked Freddie.

Paul smirked. He wandered over to the radio by the desk, and tuned into a station. The radio was new, and they only acquired one channel. It played country music and soap operas; but mainly soap operas. "It's art at its finest."

* * *

"Well Jack, thanks for lending some charcoal and paper for our young lad. I'm sure he will keep busy for the rest of the night, isn't that right Freddie?" Freddie gawked at the three guards loitering around his cell. Jack, Dean and Paul all held mugs of coffee in their hands, taunting the prisoner.

Dean spoke, "He's very quiet. How did you get him to shut up?"

Paul started, "Well, this man needs a little discipline. As you all know he's a brilliant mind."

Jack Van Hay nodded, "Strapped him down?"

Paul chuckled, "Nothing like strapping him down and listening to a little soap opera on our radio." The three guards laughed together.

Freddie was drawing at a small desk inside his cell. He hated art, any art, but he had no choice. He was handcuffed to the table, and if he participated in the activities that he was instructed, food and a hot bath would come his way. His first punishment for toying with Dean, Harry's and Winnie's minds was tying him to a chair, and playing soap operas on the radio. When enough was endured, Paul gave him a new form of entertainment, drawing. Paul continued, "And Freddie is going to keep quiet for the rest of the night, right Freddie, or we are going to have to endure more soap operas. And we all know how much you love them."

Freddie scowled as he continued to entertain himself, "Whatever."

Paul cocked his head to the side, "Whatever what?"

"Sir," Freddie answered. "This is humiliating, sir."

The guards were pleased. Dean entered the conversation, "Freddie, you can also play cards with us anytime you like. Just let us know."

"Freddie you have to understand that your mind is like a car; it keeps running. In order to keep it idle we need to calm it. Now, this is my last warning. You can talk to us, but if there is any indication that you are becoming a hazard to my block, serious measures will occur. I need the prisoners calm here along with my staff. I can't have an episode like last night happening again. It would be an awful mess to clean up; and this time I would make sure you'd do it, understood?"

Freddie took a deep breath, "Yes sir."

"Continue," Paul concluded. After his last statement, Paul led Dean and Jack to the desk. "When Brutal arrives, Dean, let him know what's going on. Also, you are on watch for now. I need Alex calm; I can't have anyone hurting themselves. Oh, and Dean, if he's not behaving, don't hesitate to strap him. Record his behaviour as well. Our radio is quite new, and needs a little tuning."

Dean crossed his arms and smiled, "My pleasure."

"Jack and I will be in the execution room," Paul stated before leaving the mile; Jack Van Hay followed. Paul started, "Jack, do you think you'll be able to help us strap Alex tonight? Since Harry won't be with us, I've got to switch everyone around."

Jack nodded, "Sure Paul, whatever you need me to do." He took a sip of his coffee. "What're you thinking?"

Paul sighed, "I'll get Dean to do Harry's job; you will take Dean's place, and then once he's strapped tight, go to the switch room."

"Yes, sir," he concluded.

When Brutal arrived at the mile, it was somewhat chaotic. Paul and Dean were practically sitting on the convict, Freddie, who laid face first into the floor. They were tying the straight jacket around Freddie, and Brutal could only wonder what on earth took place on the Green Mile. Anything could happen there. As Brutus continued down the mile, Paul looked up and smiled. Afterwards, Paul buckled the straps as Freddie struggled.

"Settle down Freddie," he started. "You were being uncourteous and foul mouthed on my block. Best we bring some discipline."

"Is that what happened?" Brutal chuckled.

Freddie continued to struggle, but Dean was quick to restrain him. "Not at first, you see we have this plan…Paul?"

"Brutal, listen well. The same goes for you Freddie!"

"What have I ever done to you?!" Freddie exclaimed.

"Like I said before and I don't know if you were listening, but we've got to keep you quiet and occupied. If we suspect any suspicious behaviour, see you do wrong, being foul mouthed, or throwing a temper tantrum because things aren't going your way, then desperate times will call for desperate measures. And because of your cursing and sudden violent outburst, we are restraining you. I'm not tolerating bad behaviour like yours."

Brutus glanced at his toes, laughing nervously.

Paul became confused, "What's that look for?"

Paul and Dean lifted the prisoner from the floor, and led him to the restraint room. Much to their surprise, once Paul opened the door, several chairs and empty desks greeted them. Freddie laughed, "Ha, you can't put me in there now, huh?"

Dean shoved the convict forward. "Shut up, or best we put you in there with the rest of the company."

Paul turned to Brutal, "So that's where all our stuff went?"

Brutal shrugged his shoulders, "It was quiet round the mile! I didn't think we were needing it."

Freddie struggled, but Paul and Dean had a firm grip. "Well, you still aren't getting off the hook. Now, decide, what would you rather do? Strap and listen to the radio, or a little game of torture from Brutal here?"

Brutal thought to himself: _Since when did this involve me?_

Freddie was small in physique and knew that he was signing his own death warrant if he picked the latter. "The radio," Freddie answered.

Paul stretched out an arm, "Brutal, tape."

And so they taped his mouth shut; he was unable to scream, no longer able to talk. Poor Freddie was in a strait jacket, tied to his chair, unable to move, with nothing but the radio in front of his cell. It was enormous, and on a cart. There was only one channel at the time, and all there was, was the good ol' country music and soap operas. It was a new form of entertainment, but not Freddie's kind of entertainment. He hated distractions; he enjoyed the peace and quiet. All three guards stood in the front of Freddie's cell glowering down upon him. Paul said:

"Oh, this is for the company."

Brutal added his two cents, "And this should keep you quiet for the rest of the night."

Freddie struggled once again, attempting to escape, but it was no use. He cursed below the tape. Paul shook his head and turned his back along with Brutus. Brutal whispered into his ear:

"Paul," he started. "Strapping him down won't be enough, you know that. This is not punishment exactly."

"No," Paul agreed. "It's not. We could beat him to a pulp, but…he is weak physically. In my beliefs, I would rather fight a man who has the same physicality as me. He's strong in the mind though, and so am I. I'd rather fight that way."

Brutal couldn't help, but nod his head in agreement. Paul was right, and full of wisdom. What would the world be without him? "What if it gets worse? He can drive an innocent man to his death. If you are going to fight him mentally you've got to get into his mind. You've got to drive him mad; it's the only way. Occupying him won't be enough, and soon, he will be restless until one of us finally pulls the trigger. It was too close of a call last night, and I wouldn't know what to do if such a thing happened to you. Eventually, he'll have to learn the hard way; show him in that certain situations, brawn can win the battle. It's like war almost."

"Brutal, I admire your opinions and I take them into consideration, but if he doesn't struggle, there is no need to continue our little game of torture. My decision stands, and we keep him occupied until further notice. But right now, we just need to focus on Alex."

* * *

_Chapter eleven is next..._


End file.
